Roses
by Cosmic Dragora
Summary: Evey, V, and snippets of the time they spent together.
1. Arrival

**A/N:** Hello there, and welcome to my first V for Vendetta fanfic. I have a love hate relationship with the series, but these plot bunnies tend to annoy me to no end, so here this is. A mix of comic, movie-verse, and a few of my own ideas. I know these types of stories have probably been run into the ground, but I'll try my best to make something different and interesting. Also note that I'm American, and British terms aren't really my forte. I'll just try and keep the American slang out of this, and hopefully it'll be half believable.

Shall we begin?

/

**Disclaimer**: I do not own V for Vendetta

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**ROSES**

_Cosmic Dragora_

/

**ARRIVAL**

She'd never expected this, but truth be told, neither did he. Was it whim, or perhaps genuine interest that convinced him to bring her back to his home? She was one of the masses. A number. He could have left her there to be tortured until answers were extracted, and it wouldn't have mattered a bit. She _did_ help him, regardless of how much help he _really_ needed, so there was that.

It was only natural, he supposed, that she would be angry. He tried to explain, but she, in her state, had none of it. She apologized the next day, of course, but he hardly thought it was really heartfelt. V decided that was fine with him.

She didn't know what to do with herself in this new prison. 364 days to go, and Evey wondered how many options she really had. There wasn't much she'd explored, save her room and the bathroom. The short trip between them didn't provide much excitement. Since breakfast, she'd confined herself in her room, looking through the books that lined the walls.

Reading had never really been her thing. Sure, in school there were books they were told to read, and some had been mildly interesting, but reading wasn't something she found fun. The stacks piled to the ceiling provided titles she'd never heard of. _Catcher in the Rye, Lord of the Flies, The Great Gastby, East of Eden, The Joy of Sex…The Joy of Sex_! She recoiled, color gracing her cheeks as her eyes lingered over the word. Sex. S. E. X. Looking over her shoulder, knowing no one was with her, but still not taking the chance, she reached out for the tome wedged between an innocent Dr. Seuss book and a dictionary. The cover made her blush more still as she took in the image of a man and woman almost completely naked. "God, what am I doing?" Evey whispered to herself as lifted the cover, wanting to see more, but feeling so wrong about it.

Something like this was never seen in public, hardly talked about, and most certainly never in her presence. The woman had simply never been exposed to these books, and while her purity was a thing of the past, she still found these images and words embarrassing.

A few pages were flipped and she was rewarded with more illustrations of the couple genuinely enjoying each other's company. "How was this book ever _allowed_?" The woman thought to herself as she greedily poured through the book. She began ignoring the words, and merely enjoyed the pictures. "Why would V of all people have something like _this_?" She realized then that she really didn't know anything about the masked man. She knew he was a terrorist, and she knew he enjoyed fireworks and holding young women hostage. She knew he liked art and books and stealing butter from Chancellor Sutler. Perhaps he enjoyed reading dirty books too…

The sound of heavy boots on stone made her snap the book shut and throw it behind a short stack of them. She breathed a sigh of relief when the sound led directly past her door. It was just V heading to the bathroom. Just V. Heading to the bathroom.

Evey shook her head at how jumpy she was acting. It was just a book. A book with dirty words and dirty pictures. She didn't want to admit the warmth in her loins was from such a thing. Best move on, she decided. No need to feel like this right now.

She pulled books down from perilously high stacks, one by one, and set them aside after giving them some consideration. She was surprised when she found a mirror behind a large group. Furthermore, it was attached to an entire vanity. In fact, these books were hiding a lot of furniture! Had that terrorist actually used this room to store his reading material?

Evey supposed if she had a guest bedroom she'd use it for storage too. It didn't really matter since she had rarely had guests in the past.

Moving books then became her cure for boredom, and she didn't miss the irony of it all. She figured laying low was the best option for her. He probably wouldn't mind if she moved a few books, right? At least she wasn't bothering him, right?

The woman didn't quite realize how many books there really were, packed away in that little room. Only one bookshelf, and it was already haphazardly crammed full. There was a short ledge along the wall that could double as a shelf. After a bit of moving around and re-stacking, Evey decided there would have to be a different approach to this madness. The big, bulky books were taking up far too much room, and the thinner ones were getting lost next to them. Maybe ordering them by height would be best. Perhaps the children's books would get a section of their own. Why did V even _have_ children's books?

There came a time shortly thereafter when Evey couldn't ignore her need to relieve herself. So with a sigh of defeat she crept to her door and peeked out. No one to the left. No one to the right—even though it would have been a feat, since it was a dead end. The door across the hall was sealed tight, and the bathroom door just to the left of it was ajar. Perfect.

The wooden door creaked loudly as she quickly pulled it open and shut behind her. There was no lock. Why would V need a lock? She reasoned he lived alone. At least, she hadn't seen any other trapped damsels in distress. A lock would be silly. The shower tub was at her right, bone dry. A shower sounded so good to her right then. It felt like ages since she'd washed up. But then she would have to ask permission to use it, and permission to use the shampoo—was there shampoo? No. Did the man actually _wash_ his hair? Just soap. With a sigh, Evey turned away from the disappointing bath and toward the toilet.

Business concluded, and hands washed, she once again wondered why the bathroom didn't have a mirror. Perhaps she should request one. And a brush. There was only one toothbrush as well, the ends were chewed to bits and frayed quite badly. There were some very bitey teeth behind that mask, Evey was certain. There seemed to be quite a lot of things she'd have to request of the masked man, among them some new clothes. He provided what he could, but she wondered if perhaps he would leave her to fend for herself. The costumes she found that hung from the various hooks and shoved in drawers were a bit too strange for her tastes.

The night before she didn't pry very much, but this was a new day. And new days were always wrought with adventure. The lone cabinet, standing tall before the toilet, beckoned her to open it. She listened for a moment to see if V was close, and in one swift motion pulled the doors open. Stacks of clean towels greeted her, in all sorts of colors and styles. It was odd to see something so bright in such a dreary place. It made sense, she supposed, he seemed to like gaudy aprons. Why not towels too?

Among the rest of the contents were bars of soap, stacks of toilet paper, a plunger, lotions, a tube of toothpaste, and some dental floss. It all seemed so…normal.

After closing the doors, and making sure nothing looked out of place, she left the bathroom to itself and made her way back to her room.

During that very short stretch she paused and looked to the other door. What did that door lead to? Perhaps just a peek. Just a peek and then she could return back to her room. Yes. Perfect. It was only a few steps away, she'd be able to make it back. So, taking a breath, Evey reached out and took the handle. Now or never.

To her surprise, it opened.

She was greeted by a washer and dryer, sitting side by side with stacks of neatly folded black clothing on a table. Above them were quite a lot of shelves stacked with odds and ends, but most notably, games. Board games. What were board games doing in a terrorist's _home_ of all places? And furthermore, how could he actually play them with anyone? Evey's gaze lingered over a game titled RISK and tried to remember the last time she had actually played a board game.

The room was otherwise very normal to her. It had what a laundry room should have. Detergent, old dryer sheets crumpled in corners, dustpans and brooms. It seemed to double as a cleaning closet.

Evey didn't know whether to feel disappointed or relieved at the normality of it. What did she expect to find? Bombs? She quickly cleared the notion from her mind. That was the last thing she would want to find.

But what of those other two doors?

They were to the right of the bathroom, just waiting to be opened as well. She listened for telltale signs of V's boots, and when she heard nothing but the calming tune from the Wurlitzer, went for a door.

Her hand was on the ring, ready to pull when he spoke, "Evey?"

"Oh God!" She jumped back, as if scalded, and turned to face him. He was looking through the doorway that cut off her living space from the gallery, hands clasped in front of him. To her, he seemed to have been waiting. "You need to stop scaring me like that." She breathed

He cocked his head, "My apologies, Evey." He strode forward then, and she realized the heavy carpets he had laid out in the gallery did quite a job of masking his footsteps. That ended as he passed through the barrier and stopped in front of her. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"I was just…" She floundered for an explanation to her actions. Would he be angry? He never sounded angry, but one couldn't be too cautious. "Just…"

"Exploring your new prison?" He offered with a tilt of his mask. He meant it jokingly, but his humor was lost to her.

"I suppose…" She muttered, not daring to look into those dark slits that posed as his eyes, he cleared his throat before adding,

"Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage[1]." He watched her as she lifted her head to view her surroundings, which were by all accounts, crafted entirely out of stone. Her quizzical look was not lost to him, "Shall I acquaint you with your new—albeit temporary—home?"

She was quiet for a moment before she nodded her head and let out a shy, "Yeah, alright."

He pointed out the laundry room, which she admitted seeing already. "I daresay I don't have much to wash yet." She said as she looked down at her nightclothes. V nodded silently, not missing her hint. During the short silence her eyes lingered over the handle of the door next to her, "What's through here?" She made to grab it again, but was stopped by his voice,

"That room is private." He told her firmly, gently. The woman glanced at him then backed away. She could only think of a storage room full of explosives again. With a small tilt of her head she gestured to the door next to it.

"This one?"

"Ah." He breathed, and twisted the handle. Curiously, Evey peered in, and was greeted by darkness and the slight stench of sweat and old socks. The masked man reached past her, along the wall, and flipped a switch. A gym. V had a gym.

She stepped in, admiring the different equipment. A horse, freeweights, stacks of padding, old sets of armor and some swords with fencing equipment…a total lack of mirrors. Evey had never been to a gym, but she'd seen them on tv. She'd seen them in movies. They always had mirrors.

"I'm afraid I can't do much about the stench." V spoke from the doorframe, "Seems to have seeped into the very stone."

Evey said nothing, merely took it in. What else was hiding down here?

He led her into the Gallery next, pointing out his favorite pieces of work as he went. She wondered how he could talk so excitedly about pictures. He wondered why she wasn't more interested in his one-of-a-kind, priceless paintings. "These are some of my favorite artifacts." He gestured to his wall of Egyptian reliefs and pottery. "Did you know, Evey, that the ancient Egyptians put internal organs in these?" He picked up the canopic jar with the head of Qebehsenuef and carefully, gingerly, rotated it toward her that she may hold it, "It is a canopic jar. This one in particular housed the intestines after death. The mummy would then—"

"Where does that door lead to?" Evey interrupted and pointed with her elbow. She clutched the jar of the falcon-headed God, and V quickly took it back. The woman had no respect for art—that much was certain. But how could he blame _her, _especially in the society she grew up in? For all he knew she'd never heard about Ancient Egypt in her life.

"That door leads outside." Something clicked within Evey right then. Outside. She saw the locks on the door, splayed about with the intent of keeping everything and anything out. Or in.

"Outside." She repeated.

"Beware, of course, of the multitude of traps you will undoubtedly find yourself coming across." He paused to admire the relief in the stone of an Egyptian woman. The ancients knew their craft very well, "Many of them are set to maim, disfigure, or otherwise, incapacitate the victim." She let out a small sound, he smirked behind the grinning visage of Guy Fawkes. He was lying, yes, but only to protect her. A lock would have to be installed, he supposed. One that prevented the door from opening unless it was unlocked with a key instead of a hinge. Living with a person was starting to seem like a bit of a chore suddenly.

Evey nodded at the masked man's words. "Right." She sighed and looked around. Her eyes trailed over pictures and statues, vases and tables, chairs and knick knacks. They finally landed on the kitchen, which was blocked partially from view by a screen. She had seen the kitchen already, but what of the door behind the drapes?

He saw her eyes linger, and the mask followed the gaze. "The pantry." He stated simply. "Have a look if you want." She decided she might as well. Tentatively she pulled the screen aside and stepped past he fridge, the oven, the table, and up to the door. It opened easily, with only a slight creak. The scent of a multitude of spices hit her all at once, causing her mouth to water. Was she really hungry? A string hung from the light, which she pulled. Dishware, spices, boxed food items, cook books, miscellaneous pots and pans were all assembled in an orderly fashion along the walls on shelves. It was rather cramped in there, but it smelled divine. She found herself wondering what lunch would consist of, but caught the words before they left her mouth. No need to press the subject.

But she couldn't help but remark, "It smells wonderful in here."

From the stove the masked man nodded, though she couldn't see, "I do enjoy the scent of spices and herbs, though I believe all of them at once can be a bit overbearing."

"I can only imagine how good meals must taste with stuff like this in it." She lifted a clear jar and tipped the lid. It was a rich, flowery scent. What a strange thing to have.

"If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world[2]." He muttered as the woman searched through his pantry, looking for things she'd never seen, never tried. She heard him speak and asked him what he said. "Not a thing." He replied

"I guess it was just my imagination." She knew it wasn't.

He wanted to show her his art. He wanted to show her his collection of songs and listen to them with her. He wanted to show her movies he'd found. He wanted to show her which books to read first so he could discuss them with her. He wanted to experience companionship. He wanted to experience people.

She wanted to leave. She wanted her life back. She wanted to wash herself of anything V related. She didn't want to be an accomplice anymore. She would gladly turn herself in. She just didn't want this life that was forced upon her. She didn't want any of it.

He could sense her detachment from the conversation as he explained one of his favorite paintings. The Arnolfini Portrait. She merely wondered why there was a door across the hallway covered by artworks. He sighed and turned from Mr. and Mrs. Arnolfini. "That door is also off limits."

"Ah." She looked around some more. Three doors she couldn't pass through. Silently she approached the piano, looking around at the paintings hung around the sitting room. Men, women, horses….and _naked_ women at that. God, the man had no shame!

His breath caught in his throat when she leaned back on the piano. Oh, not the piano, it might scrape across the floor! She let up after a moments consideration of the suit of armor.

But what was that out of the corner of her eye? A television? That sounded pretty good right about then. Perhaps there was a show on that she could catch.

She glanced to him, then back at the tv, "You may watch anything you wish." He responded to the unasked question. That seemed kind. Perhaps this was slightly less a prison cell now. What captor would allow their prisoner to eat, roam, and watch the tv? But there was one more alcove that she had not yet seen fully. The entrance was adorned with drapes, as the red sitting room was, but within it only held a door, a couple statues and paintings, a small television, and a vanity with bright yellow lights surrounding the mirror.

"How odd." She thought to herself as she moved for the mirror. It was the only mirror she'd found in the place at all. As she approached she looked to her side—yet another mirror! A full length one at that. Maybe the masked man simply didn't have many mirrors in his possession. They were easy enough to find, though. She only needed one…

Like a moth to a flame she was drawn to the vanity, and before she knew what she was doing, she was seated before it. Behind her, Guy Fawkes smiled on. She looked down. A comb? To her left, a wig stand. A wig stand? Or perhaps for the mask? Surely he didn't wear a wig.

But he did wear a mask.

She caught her own reflection as she looked up again. Ah, that bruise was certainly big and purple now. Very unattractive. Her hand flew up to it, and no sooner did it, that a gloved hand took her own and gently pulled it away, "It should be left alone." He let her go very quickly, as if not wanting to touch her, "So it may heal."

She gave a nod. If only she hadn't maced that detective. If only she hadn't gone along with him the other night. If only.

"Are you hungry, Evey?" The masked man jarred her from her thoughts and she looked up at him via the mirror.

"Well, yes, actually."

"Come then. We shall scrounge up a feast fit for a king!" The man sure had an air of drama about him, that much was certain.

"I don't think I'm quite _that_ hungry." She stood and looked over, "Ah, but V." The mask turned sharply, black hair whirling out on either side, "This door?"

"Off limits, I'm afraid."

"Ah." She couldn't help but wish to have a look. After all, things kept hidden were all the more desired.

"Come now, let us dine." He pulled her along by placing a gloved hand on her back. She reluctantly followed.

/

Lunch hadn't been what she expected. She expected the mask to eventually come off so that he might eat with her. "I'm afraid I must decline." He said with just a hint of remorse in his voice, "I shall eat later." She thought back to his hands and wondered if, perhaps, the fire had done a bit more damage than she had originally thought.

She was left alone until dinner, but she still wanted to see something else. Anything else. She needed to escape from this place. So far the only means of leaving was trapped and furthermore, locked. This wasn't going to be easy. Windows didn't exist. No grates to speak of. Nothing. He knocked and announced dinner while she was trying on some hats she found in her room. Playing dress up had only mildly amused her.

Dinner was similar to lunch. He sat before her as she ate, relatively silent until he thought of a quote or a book he enjoyed. She remained quiet, nibbling on a roast beef sandwich—leftovers from lunch. His cooking was good, she had decided earlier. Good. Not great. Perhaps the level of skill matched that of her own, which was fairly average. That was good enough for her. At least she was given food. It seemed more like she was staying over at someone's house for a short while, and not kept prisoner for an entire year.

An entire year.

Suddenly it seemed like quite a long time. And there seemed so little to do. A knot formed in her stomach as she ate. She felt sick.

"Evey?" She looked up at him for a moment before finding a spot on the stove to concentrate on instead, "Are you alright? Is there something I can get you?" Was that concern of all things she heard in his voice? A terrorist concerned over the well being of another?

"I'm fine." She lied, taking a sip of water, "I guess I ate too fast." Both of them knew she was eating ridiculously slow. She finished her dinner in silence, never realizing how loud chewing was to her own ear, and excused herself.

V sat there, perplexed. He had always imagined he would be having such lovely conversation if he'd ever dined with anyone. But this? This was not what he wanted. Sighing, he took her plate and dropped it in the sink. She was probably overwhelmed. That's all. He tried to reason that she was just not used to this change. Not used to the beauty of art, and lengthy conversation about it.

But what did young ladies enjoy talking about?

/

He found her apartment and acquired some clothing. It wasn't a simple task, as the police were not done with it yet. The lock was easily undone—her keys were in her purse, which he inspected as she cleaned up for the night. Perhaps it was low of him, but the lady did offhandedly request clothes, and he figured it was best to comply. He'd imagined her place to be small, undecorated. He had been correct. How could anyone live in such a boring, unstimulating place? It was a maddening thought.

He was in her kitchen. Nothing of interest here. She didn't even own an interestingly colored apron. The bedroom was down the tiny hall. A simple bed, a small vanity, a little dresser and a closet were contained within it. Clothes were his first priority, so to the dresser he strode, and from it extracted stacks of shirts, shorts, and some pants. V decided he might as well bring as much back as he could. Perhaps it would help her feel more at home.

Surprisingly, she had little. Much less than he. The masked man did quite enjoy dressing up. Maybe she didn't.

Then he opened it, the drawer that contained—well. He didn't want to stare at them, but there they were. The most colorless, boring undergarments the human world knew, and not a pattern in sight. They were in a mishmash with her socks, and in the light of things, V decided it best to just grab handfuls and throw them in the bag and leave it at that.

Clothing fully squared away, V contemplated the dress clothes in her closet for a moment before deeming the sack heavy enough. One or two dresses, perhaps. He could find her more.

Should he leave, then? He was compelled to explore her little flat. To see who this person called Evey really was. But then, there was just so little to see. Hardly any décor. Only a bit of makeup on her vanity and some posters. Ah, makeup. She'd need none of that. No one to impress at his abode. Her bathroom was simple—a little dirty. Toothpaste cluttered the sink and some marks were on the mirror. Mirror. Hm.

He grabbed her hairbrush, her shampoo—goodness knows he completely forgot about such things. He had no hair to wash!

He thought it best to leave quickly, though. No need to linger when there were fingermen about. If his guest needed anything else, he was sure she would ask.

Well…almost certain.

/

She awoke to the sounds of the jukebox and blearily reached for the lamp switch. It wasn't easy for her to sleep in such darkness, nor in pure silence.

Bathroom.

Right, right. Her body felt dirty. Her teeth felt nasty. Her hair had enough oil to fry a fish. Or two.

As she opened the door, she was greeted by a sack. "How odd." She thought. Upon further inspection of the contents, Evey was quite pleased to find clothes—_her_ clothes. How did he—?

She flew to her purse—gone. Her keys were gone. That damn terrorist! How dare he rifle through her things!

She turned back to her clothes. Well, perhaps she'd forgive him for at least bringing her something to wear. God, he went to her house and rifled through her knickers—how embarrassing.

Her mood was brought back somewhat by the sight of a brand new toothbrush on the sink and a shampoo bottle on the edge of the tub. No conditioner. Well, it was something at least. Best not complain, he was considerate enough to get these things. She spied her hairbrush, and, ah, her stick of deodorant. She had to chuckle. At least she would finally smell decent. A shower was definitely in order—one of the most satisfying she'd ever had.

/

[1]Richard Lovelace; To Althea, From Prison

[2]JRR Tolkien


	2. Trust

**TRUST**

/

How she hated that damn terrorist. He almost had her—oh he did—with his honeyed words and movies. How could she say no to a movie she'd never seen before? The man sounded so inviting, and even acquiesced to her request when she told him to unhand his sword. A terrorist with a sword was no laughing matter.

But _killing_ Lewis Prothero? That damn terrorist! He was trying to destroy this country and all it stood for. It didn't matter if she agreed with everything that came out of the late Lewis Prothero's mouth or not. His words gave people some hope that this country would survive. Continue. Now what did the people have? Nothing! That's what!

And now she, Evey Hammond, was trapped under the streets of London with the man who killed the voice. God help her, what if she was next? She was unnecessary. Just a person who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. She didn't want to die, no, not here. The thoughts brought color to her cheeks. Angry tears threatened to form.

No. No crying. That's what the terrorist wanted. He wanted fear and disorder. Well, forget it, he wouldn't have it from her!

She looked up and spied herself in the mirror, beet red and glassy eyed. She hated seeing herself like that. If only she could be braver. But what could one lone girl like herself do in the presence of this killer?

V had hardly moved from his seat in front of the television. He expected her reaction, of course, which is why he flew to change the channel. Should he have ignored her? No, no, that would have been rude.

"That was a bit rude of _her_, you know." He told himself as he watched the brightly colored commercials flash before his mask, "She accused you of doing something wrong."

"Well, it bloody well wasn't wrong." He reasoned, tilting his mask to the side, "He needed to be taken care of, else the plan would fail."

"Yes, yes, and the plan has been meticulously carried out for the past five years, and nothing has interrupted it yet." He paused

"Ah. Except for her." He thought about it for a moment, admiring his gloves and pulling a piece of lint from them, "But, it isn't so much an interruption as it is another window." With a flick of the remote, the commercial for shampoo blinked off the screen, and the masked man stood, "I daresay I enjoy her company, you know."

"She's hardly even been around you."

"Yes, well, one can't rush a guest. I only did snatch her away from all she knew and loved." Here V chuckled softly, "My friend, I guess it was loneliness. 'I felt a haunting loneliness sometimes, and I felt it in others—young clerks in the dusk, wasting the most poignant moments of night and life[1]."

"Maybe next time make a real friend instead of snatching one away?" V began to stride across the Shadow Gallery, to his piano,

"I fear that few would ever want to be friends with a man in a mask." Dramatically he flung himself onto his piano bench and mock wept.

"Ah, 'He reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise," The mask nodded silently, "And when he looked around him now for the first time," The mask lifted, and he slowly stood, "and saw the height and splendor of the hall…" He took his gallery in, twirling in circles and eyeing every last artwork, "his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride[2]." Here he stopped and gave a quiet laugh, which soon grew louder and louder until the masked man could feel tears forming.

"Yes, yes, indeed." He whispered, and moved with new purpose to the kitchen, "She probably wants tea."

Back in her room, Evey was frozen at her door. She'd heard some mumbling and cracked it open a bit to hear. The woman was stunned to find the terrorist talking to himself. Laughing at nothing. God, he was crazy. She was stuck in the ground with a madman. She needed to get out of this place. She just needed a plan, something to—

Footsteps on the stone caught her attention and she jumped away from the door. "Evey?" A soft voice and a knock made her freeze, "I'm making some tea, would you care for any?"

"No." She said it too quickly, she almost cut him off before he finished. What if he poisoned it? No, she would make her own tea from now on. She refused to be poisoned.

"Ah, well, I'll leave some in the pot if you change your mind." She listened to the steady tap of his boots until he passed on to the carpet in the Gallery. How could he sound so calm? How could he sound so calm after he _killed Lewis Prothero?_ This was maddening. Absolutely maddening. The man had no heart. No soul.

She needed to get out of there. But how?

/

V had always thought of cooking as a chore, but now with his guest around, he saw it more as a duty. What should he cook today? Eggs, pancakes, sausage? Perhaps a bowl of oatmeal would be more to her liking. Ah, that didn't take much. Maybe he should ask. No, no, best not bother the lady, she might still be asleep. He feared by the time she emerged it would be lunch , and breakfast would have to be stored away for some other morning.

He was just about to turn on the stove and cook himself an egg when the woman made herself present. "Ah, Bonjour Mademoiselle." She looked away and replied quietly,

"Good morning."

"What would you like for breakfast today?" He asked, brandishing the frying pan, "I have a stick of butter with your name on it." She did not smile or give any hint that she heard his joke, but merely sat and requested a bowl of cereal.

"Ah." He turned his head dejectedly, and replaced the pan on its hangar, "Then for the lady, cereal." The box of flakes were poured and given a splash of milk. "Care for any tea?"

"No, no thank you." She studied the cereal carefully, inspecting it for any sign of tampering. They looked normal. Evey decided she would just take a small bite, and if they tasted funny, she'd leave it.

V was fixed on the woman in front of him, cautiously picking at her breakfast. He didn't realize that someone could be so sensitive to something so trivial as killing. Then again, he might have been sensitive once. He couldn't remember. He wasn't sorry for killing Lewis Prothero, and she wouldn't get an apology from him. It was what had to be done. "May I sit down?" He asked, which he thought was rather silly, since it was his table after all.

She nodded and crunched away at the corn flakes. They weren't her favorite cereal, but what could she complain about? She wasn't going to let this man cook her food. Hell, she thought he had left early like he did the past few days. Waking up to an empty Gallery had been a Godsend. She felt at ease without his frightening mask staring her down, no matter where she was or what she did. It was unnerving.

V cleared his throat, "You're still upset?" He meant it to start some conversation, not begin World War III, but when she looked up he could tell he was closer to the latter. A small sound escaped his lips, a sharp exhale. Evey angrily turned her attention away. They sat in silence while she quickly finished her meager meal. He didn't know what to say to her, but tried one last time, "Are you angry that I killed Lewis Prothero?" She twirled the spoon in her hands for a moment before letting it drop into the bowl with a clang, "Or are you angry that I killed?"

"Doesn't really matter does it?" She mumbled, "You stole from me and used what you took for your own selfish needs." She breathed deeply, her heart was racing, "You killed someone. You killed Lewis Prothero."

"That I did." V nodded and leaned back in his chair, hating the truthfulness of her words, but finding them paling in comparison to his vendetta, "So you're angry that I stole from you." She wouldn't look at him now, "And killed Lewis Prothero." He inclined his head

"Obviously." She whispered

"Had I killed anyone else, would you still be so angry?" Her mind raced, of course she would! Killing wasn't right or necessary unless the person was really, really bad. Lewis Prothero had said some terrible things in the past, but there was absolutely no reason to kill him. Had V killed another terrorist, someone who deserved it, maybe then she would be able to agree with him. But no, killing wasn't necessary.

She gave a resolute nod and stood up, chair scraping against the stone floors. "I'll be away until supper." He called after her, knowing that expecting an answer at this point was futile. He shook his head as he watched her disappear around the corner. There was just no making her happy. Well, some people were more sensitive than others. Perhaps she was one of them. Death wasn't much of a big deal to the masked man, but what he had been through was not something the general masses had, either. Evey just didn't know, and she never would. It was fine that way. He didn't really want to bore her with the story of his known life. He'd rather know about her. Know what she liked and hated.

Well, for one, she liked butter. Two, she hated killing. Three, she liked Lewis Prothero? The last one V wasn't certain of, but why else would she get so upset?

It didn't matter. He had some things to buy, and a track to maintain, so breakfast would have to be quick. Before he left he made double sure the locks were secure. Maybe she would be easier to talk to when he returned.

/

The next few days were torture for V. Try as he might, he could not get his guest to crack. He couldn't get her to give him a full conversation. "Would you care to watch a film with me?" He asked more than once. Each time she declined. "Perhaps a dance?" No, no, she rejected that even faster. He spent his time hammering away at the piano, belting out sonatas and minuets until his arms became heavy from fatigue. How he loved playing the piano, but even as he played, another spot of bad luck came about. It would need tuning soon. It always needed tuning.

V spent that particular day playing many songs loudly, aggressively. He didn't expect it when she came forward as he began another song, calmer and simple. "Ah, Mademoiselle." He greeted her with an incline of the head. He tried to sound inviting, thinking perhaps these past few days he had frightened her off with his demeanor, "Come. Sit by me." She moved forward, cautiously, "I won't bite." He chuckled lightly, "Do you like the piano?"

"Yes." She breathed softly, "I mean I didn't think I did until I heard…" She trailed off and stood to the side of the bench, watching him play.

"Come, sit." He invited again, trying to show he wasn't some bloodthirsty, ill-mannered terrorist, but a gentle, refined terrorist.

"It won't mess you up?" She stepped forward and put a hand out to the bench. The masked man shook his head, and continued playing. Evey sat on the very edge, determined not to get too close to him. She had heard him play before, and at first believed it to be the jukebox. The sweet notes drew her out of her room when they became too quiet, and when she saw the jukebox didn't have a record selected, she knew. The piano was not all for show.

"I quite enjoy this piece. Simple, elegant." His fingers flew over the keys and with a few chords, finished it, "Also quite short."

"What is it?" She dared ask, not because she was terribly interested, but because she couldn't take the silence between them suddenly. She breathed a sigh of relief when he began to play again,

"That was _Fur Elise,_ by Ludwig Van Beethoven." He strung along the keys, seemingly without effort, but V could feel his arms failing him. If only he hadn't been so harsh on them earlier! "Though there is controversy over whether or not the piece was made for a woman named Elise."

"Ah." Evey breathed, watching his fingers glide over the keys, "It sounded…sad."

"Really?" V cocked his head, "I find it enchanting, beautiful." He thought for a moment, "Why do you find it sad?" Finally, he would have a conversation about something he enjoyed.

"It just sounded like it, I guess." Evey shrugged, "How about this song? What is it?"

"Beethoven again, this is his _Moonlight Sonata._" He looked to her, "Though I daresay I find this one quite a bit more sad than the other."

"Yeah…" She nodded, "Yeah. You were playing much happier things before."

"You think so?" He turned back to the piano, "Well the second movement does become slightly more cheerful, if that's what you're after."

"I'm not a fan of sad songs." She said quietly, taking in the music. She had never played an instrument as a child, and never had any desire to play one. But watching the masked man play the piano made her think twice and wish, perhaps, that she had. Within a few moments the music changed. It was upbeat, happy. "Oh" She breathed

"Hm." V smiled behind his mask, "I told you."

"Well, I suppose you did."

"Everyone suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues, and this is mine: I am one of the few honest people that I have ever known[3]." Lies, lies, all lies. How else was he supposed to make her trust him, though? She sat with him the duration of the piece, tilting her head when the third movement came about. The stormy segment, emotional and quick. He immersed himself in it, and by the time he finished the piece he was decidedly tired and sore. That was quite enough piano for one day. His fingers needed the rest.

"You did that all from memory." The woman beside him stated, "Have you always played?"

"Well, no." He closed the lid carefully, as not to harm the wood, "It is a hobby I picked up a few years ago." They sat together for the greater part of a moment until Evey couldn't take the uncomfortable air and got up.

"I take it that you are still angry?" V asked calmly, quietly

"A bit."

"Frightened?"

"Somewhat." The masked man sighed, averting his gaze from his guest, and studied the statue that sat upon his piano instead,

"I suppose there is nothing I can do to quell this fear? This anger?" Evey shrugged, shuffled her feet, and shook her head,

"Nothing I can think of."

"And yet," V stood, "you ventured out of your safe haven to sit by me as I played the piano." Carefully he slid the seat back in place, "You must not fear me quite as much as you think." She shrugged again, a gesture that was starting to annoy him, "If you want to hate me, so be it, I deserve nothing less." She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, "Just know that you have nothing to fear here. I would never harm you, nor wish harm to come to you." His statements were true, for the most part. Should she take knives to his treasured paintings, smash his statues, or burn his wig collection—oh God, not the wig collection—he would probably wish some form of harm on her. But he didn't believe even she could perform such atrocities. No. It truly took a monster. She was not such.

"You haven't been eating well lately." V commented and gestured to the kitchen, "Have you been feeling ill?"

"I suppose." These short answers were really starting to bother the masked man, who only wished to have lengthy, long-winded conversations.

"Shall I prepare you anything?" She shook her head very suddenly

"No, no, I'll eat later."

He stood in silence and watched her go. He felt like he did that quite a lot. She spent so much time in her room, he figured she was quite bored. Hopefully reading some of the better novels, but who knew? She never spoke of them. She didn't trust him. But how could he _make_ her trust him? He'd tried to be kind, gentlemanly. Did he really offend her so much? Was it the mask? Well he couldn't take that off. The hair? Maybe a different wig was in order. This one was so comfortable though….

First things first was to have the lady eat. Lord knew she wasn't doing much of that, but he couldn't figure out why. "She must be sick." He spoke to the fridge, "Else she'd eat. Right?" He searched the contents, finding bits of leftovers, and chunks of cut up vegetables. He couldn't make a grand meal, but perhaps something aromatic. Delicious. Simple. Ah, simplicity. How V loved simplicity sometimes.

/

He called her when it was done. With a gentle rap at her door, he announced suppertime, and a few minutes later she trudged into the Gallery. "Come, Evey." He pulled her chair out with a flourish, "No cereal for you tonight." The look of horror on her features was definitely unsettling, "We've run out." He lied. Oh, the look of terror that set in her eyes. One would think he was trying to kill her.

Ah.

"I don't think I'm that hungry, actually." She tried to lie, but even he could see her eying the pot of stew greedily. It smelled divine, and in V's humble opinion, tasted as such.

"Nonsense." He reached out for her, she reluctantly moved forward to her seat, "There, now, for your dining pleasure," V flipped something out of the frying pan, "Beef stew over fried polenta." Polenta? Evey had never tasted polenta, and at the moment had no desires to try anything new and strange. "I used extra butter." V winked behind the mask before realizing how utterly useless that was. She couldn't see his eyes.

"Butter." She parroted and eyed the meal hungrily. It _did_ smell good, but still…

"Do you not like stew?"

"Well…it's just." She wanted to eat, she really did. She hadn't had anything with substance in the past two days. Maybe she _was_ being overly cautious. If he wanted to kill her, he would have done it by now.

With a quick glance to the masked man, and a deep breath, she took a bite. Within a few more bites, she couldn't seem to eat it fast enough. Perhaps it was the monotonous diet she'd succumbed to, the need for something else, but the stew was really quite delicious.

"Well now." V seated himself in front of her, "I'm glad to see you're eating properly again." She was glad, too, and suddenly felt quite terrible about the past few days. He saw it, too. A moment of regret that flashed over her features, but he didn't pursue it. Whatever strange things she had convinced herself to be true were hopefully gone. Besides, a lady deserves better than cereal for every meal. He should have pushed her to eat something else.

But then, he didn't even know what her favorite meal was.

He was about to ask when she spoke up. "I should…apologize." She poked at an onion as she spoke, "For refusing your meals."

"Ah, well, best not to worry." He didn't really want this to turn into some apology fest, and he most certainly didn't want Evey to be hard on herself, "You needn't even apologize. And please, eat more."

She'd never been more glad for seconds.

/

[1], [2], [3] F. Scott Fitzgerald, _The Great Gatsby_

_/_

_**A/N:** _I should say, the title must seem really strange. I haven't even mentioned roses yet. I was writing the first chapter and listening to some random music I have when shuffle brought up _Roses_ by Poets of the Fall. I don't generally listen to that type of music, but this song has sort of stuck with me. The lyrics seem somewhat fitting for V and Evey. Maybe V wouldn't consider himself so sad and angsty, but his story really is quite sad to me. And that is how I titled this fic, haha.


	3. Embarrassment

**EMBARRASSMENT**

/

Evey still made an effort to avoid him when he was around. It had been a week since she arrived, but she felt little had changed. He had even seemed more frightening for that brief moment. The masked man often greeted her with kind words and offerings of food and TV shows. Part of her felt wrong for accepting any of it. It was his attitude that confused her. Why would a wanted man, someone who only desired chaos and destruction, be so kind to a hostage? That never happened. Not in movies, not in TV shows, or books.

It never quite added up, and sometimes Evey found herself wondering when her next meal might be her last. He never let on though, not that she could tell. He never once alluded to anything sinister, never threatened, never pushed nor prodded her, except to eat.

But, it was the dawn of a new day. Maybe she would finally get the courage to ask for some conditioner, and perhaps a razor. For years she had audibly complained with her friends, "Dear God, shaving is the most annoying thing. Why did it ever become the vogue?" This morning she realized that though it saved her quite a bit of trouble and time, the itchiness and rough texture of the growing hair was really bothersome. Though, probably not as bothersome as asking her captor for beauty products.

It was when she stood that she felt it. "Oh God." She breathed, and hurried out her door. The bathroom was vacant, to her relief, but alas, the damage was done. The monthly curse was back. She scolded herself for forgetting. She knew it would happen soon, she could have prepared herself. As Evey wrung out her ruined knickers in the sink, she cursed quietly. There was something else she'd have to gather courage to ask for.

Blood never came out easily, and the woman wondered if it was even worth it trying to save the undergarments. It wasn't as bad as it could have been. Her shorts were safe, her sheets were spared. They were small victories, but victories nonetheless.

In a last act of desperation she checked the bathroom closet. No, no. Why would a man _ever_ carry such things? A very botched napkin was pulled together. This plan would only work for so long.

In her state, she found courage. It wasn't much, but she had little else. On some paper she found in her room she wrote a list for the masked man. God, she felt silly. Writing a shopping list for her captor. It was almost surreal. She was specific, apologetic, sincere. These were things she needed, above all, if he couldn't get the rest, please get the sanitary material.

And if it wasn't too much trouble, a mirror for the bathroom?

With a deep breath, she entered the gallery, and searched for V. He wasn't at the piano, he wasn't watching television. He wasn't in the kitchen, so where could he have gone? Perhaps he was in the small gym he created, but she dared not go there. He would undoubtedly come back to the kitchen. He always seemed to be in the kitchen. With a magnet she stuck the note to the fridge and left it at that. Evey hoped she wouldn't have to wait long, but there was little else she could do.

In the meantime, breakfast.

/

He had finally ended his stretches and emerged from the dank confines of his gymnasium. A bit of exercise now and then was always in order, and V found it helped cure the boredom of living a solitary life.

He thought on that for a moment. If only she would make herself seen. Ah well, no matter. Everyone was different, and how could he blame Evey if she was shy? How could he blame her if she disliked it here?

But now was not the time to dwell on such things. Lunch would have to be prepared, and maybe she would even talk to him today. The thought gave the masked man some hope as he strode into the kitchen. Ah, but what was that on the fridge? A note? Well that was odd, and stranger still, written by Evey.

Yet, who else would be able to write to him?

He chuckled lightly at her apologetic tone. The poor woman really did think he was quick to anger, even though he strove to show her this wasn't the case. The list was pocketed, a sandwich was made and eaten, and the woman was found. That is to say, she was still in her room.

"Evey." V called out and rapped on her door gently, "Help yourself to anything for lunch, I'm stepping out." He heard a muffled affirmative, which he replied with a nod to the door. He knew she couldn't very well hear him rattle his head, but he was quite at a loss for words at the moment.

/

A terrorist he might be, but stealing from honest shops was not something V wanted to pride himself in. No, he would stride in, pay for the things, and stride back out with fairly purchased merchandise. His guise had been applied fairly rapidly, but nonetheless, it stuck to his face. He took on an appearance of someone much older than he supposed he really was. It managed to fool people in the past, but did gain some strange looks. People were not stupid, when something was not quite right, they did tend to notice. Some of them, anyway.

"Sir, would you like any help finding anything?" A young clerk was unboxing items just inside the pharmacy he had chosen. Without a word he handed her the list Evey had scrawled out not an hour prior—his name carefully ripped off, of course. The girl's face scrunched up in confusion as she read the entirety of it, then relaxed into a grin, "Ah, she even drew pictures for you. That's cute, actually." She turned and motioned for the disguised man to follow. He never once had to speak, and the girl easily found everything needed. He was glad for her. Even though Evey had been quite specific (according to the clerk) he wanted to make sure everything was right. No sense disappointing the lady.

/

She searched everywhere for pain relievers. They weren't in the bathroom. They weren't in the laundry room. They weren't in the gymnasium or in any cabinet in the gallery. She even thought to check the pantry, but no. Not there either. Defeated, Evey had slumped in a couch for a moment, and concentrated on old breathing practices she had been taught a long time ago. Once swallowing pills became old hat, she became dependent on them for when pain showed up in her life. Pills were easy, they were a quick fix. Hypnotizing oneself was not fast, and not easy.

As she felt the pain slowly leave her lower abdomen, the locks on the front door clicked. A figure clad in black, wide brimmed hat, and rather long black coat flew past her toward the locked door by the mirrors. "Ah." She sighed in relief. Hopefully he had brought back what she requested. Maybe he had some medication around as well…

She waited some time, battling the surges of pain that jolted through her. After what might have been an eternity, the familiar face of Guy Fawkes emerged from the locked door. His dark slits landed on her where she sat, turned carefully to look over her shoulder. He made a small noise, an exhale, "Evey." He greeted her with an incline of the head, "Are you…well?" In his hand she spied the bag, and within it all that she had asked for. He truly was the kindest terrorist she had ever met.

He was the only terrorist she had ever met…

"Yes, well, that is, no." She shrugged and turned back around to face the wall of paintings, "You don't happen to have any pain medication do you?" She paused, "If you don't that's, you know, fine too."

He stroked his porcelain chin, and after a moments thought asked, "Did you check the kitchen?"

"Well, no." Why would anyone check the _kitchen_ for pain relievers? Why would anyone keep medication in the _kitchen_ for God's sake!

"Ah, well, that would be where they are kept." His statement rather annoyed her, as he put it so simply. She felt stupid, not because she didn't know where they had been, but because he implied she should have known all along. She told herself to breathe, to calm down. It was just the hormones making her upset. It wasn't a big deal, not a big deal at all. "I have what you asked for." He approached her and extended the bag.

"Thank you." She responded quietly, taking the bag and eying the products carefully. Everything was in check, as far as she could see. He even bought those razors she requested. The good ones.

"Yes, well." He averted his gaze and stepped back, "Would you care for any tea? Perhaps a biscuit?" Tea and biscuits? Yes, of course, that would be lovely! But damn it all if she didn't have to take care of her problem first. She gave a nod, which he acknowledged. The woman waited until he busied himself in the kitchen before she stood. She'd really need those pills soon…

/

She didn't look too happy, he decided, as he watched her sip her tea. As usual, she wasn't quite in the spirits for talking, but V decided it was just her character. But then, people often loved talking about themselves. Ah, maybe he was going about this all the wrong way. "Evey." She glanced his way,

"Yes?"

"So tell me, Evey, how did you used to spend your free time?" A safe enough question, he thought.

"Used to…" She trailed off. Hm, perhaps not as safe as originally expected, "Well, after work I'd usually go out for a drink with my friends or catch up on some tv."

"And weekends?" V prodded

"Um, well, sometimes I'd take walks if the weather was nice. Chat with my girlfriends, read, or find things online to do." The mask tilted,

"Oh, did you read often? Did you have a favorite book?"

"Well, I…" She trailed off, "I did enjoy Shakespearian plays as a child because, as you know, I liked acting. But otherwise I suppose I mostly read magazines and the like." This poor, dear, uncultured girl. She really needed some more literature in her life.

"Have you read any of the books in my library?"

"You have a library?"

"Well, yes, you're currently sleeping in it."

"Oh." The look on her face was to be expected, probably, but personally V couldn't think of anything more exciting than sleeping in a library. So many books, so little time, "Yeah I guess I read a few."

"Any worth chatting about?" She paused to sip her tea and take a bite out of a crumbly biscuit,

"Well, I didn't like _The Great Gatsby_ very much. I thought I would at first."

"Why is that?" The book wasn't one of his favorites, but it did provide insight to what the United States was like before all of the war and confusion. It was a long time ago.

"It was weird. I've only ever heard of the United States being so barbaric and terrible. The book made it seem so normal." She looked up to find the eyes of the mask, "Was it all true?"

"The events of the book?" V paused, "No. But it was true to the time period."

"I can't imagine that country ever acting like that. Ever being so…I don't know…relaxed. Carefree."

"It seemed carefree to you?" To him that was strange. Of all of the things she had taken from the book, it wasn't the deceit or social class differences. The book portrayed decline of all sorts, but perhaps because she wasn't aware of the country's history, she wouldn't catch it.

"Yeah, everyone going to parties and having a good time. I guess it just seemed really different." She trailed off, turning slightly pink in the cheeks. He decided she was embarrassed by her answer. Had he sounded so disbelieving? It didn't matter. What mattered is that there was some progress. With some pushing and prodding, there had been progress made. She had spoken willingly.

/

He didn't expect the encounter he had with her. At least, not so soon. When two people live together, it's only a matter of time before an accidental run-in, sans clothing, would happen. The thing is, he had carefully planned to avoid her at all costs when she showered just to evade the situation. He didn't enter her room unless she allowed him. Most of the time he never asked.

He just needed to use the loo. That's all. The door was open, which, in the unspoken contract between the two, meant that the bathroom was empty.

But no, there she was, clad in nothing but a towel, combing her hair. He might have compared her to a Pre Raphaelite painting, had he not doubled back and slammed the door behind him. He hadn't meant to walk in on her! How embarrassing their conversations would be now! How would they ever be able to face each other now—now that he'd seen so much skin?

She was shocked, rooted in place. She was combing out the tangles in her hair, and opened the door to clear the newly installed mirror of fog. She never expected him to walk in. He hadn't bothered before. She barely saw him slip out, and felt the color in her cheeks rise the moment that the door slammed. There was a muffled apology, "It's fine." She replied, though quite embarrassed, "It's…fine…" It really wasn't fine, but she had no idea what to say. He hadn't stayed there and watched, he hadn't thrown himself upon her. He did quite the opposite of what any man in her life would have done. Well, maybe not all of them. It was a curious thing. He wouldn't be that shy of nudity, so many of his paintings contained it! It hardly mattered, she was quite covered by her towel anyway!

She didn't want to think about it. How would she even face that damn Guy Fawkes mask now? Now that he'd seen so much bare thigh…

/

Breakfast was difficult. The mask kept averting its gaze, and she could feel the man's discomfort in the way he sat. "I am truly sorry." He apologized for the eighth time. She had kept track. What kind of bloody terrorist apologized so damn much?

She felt she didn't need to answer anymore. She told him it was fine, to forget it, there wasn't much to see anyway. He persisted, implied everything was his fault, and he really didn't mean to walk in on her.

Evey was never really one for broken records, and for once, missed the man's usual jovial attitude and ramblings about history and books. "I'll make you a deal." She said after a moments thought, "Let's put this behind us." The mask turned slightly to look at her. She assumed he was only looking from the corner of his eye—if there were eyes back there to see, "Put it behind us, no more apologizing. No more bringing it up." She poked at a bit of egg, "And instead let's talk about something else." He was silent. She hoped he would pick the topic.

"What would you care to talk about?" His voice was full of hope, his mask turned to fully face her, "I would love—I mean—Yes, let us discuss something!" His excitement was a bit distressing, his shoulders were now straight and his body alert. He showed no signs of being upset as he did before. She didn't want to disappoint him, or bring about any unwanted wrath.

Had she seen him angry?

It didn't matter. "Well, I'm reading _The Lord of the Flies_. It's, well, interesting." The masked man decided she must not a very fast reader if she put it down in the middle. No reason for him to complain though, this was what he wanted all along. Conversation.

Who knew a little bit of embarrassment would give him what he wanted in the end?


	4. Television

**A/N: **Please read! I have made adjustments to chapter 3, and I hope they suit the story better. After reading through the comments many of you were so kind to leave, I have come to the conclusion that a) V was acting like a very typical male, and b) V is not a very typical male. So, I hope the amends are suitable, I only changed a section or two. It may be a bit shorter, and if you don't care to read the edits, that's okay! It doesn't change the story at all. I really do want to make this story worth reading, and the reviews do help. I take everything into consideration.

Also I promise I will see this to the end. I will NOT 'put the story on hold' until I get X-amount of reviews per chapter. I think doing such things is very silly, and if a reader has nothing to say, then they shouldn't be forced to say it for another chapter. I'm finishing up finals here, so in a few more weeks I'll have more free time to write. Hopefully more chapters will be out, I just need to consider the other fanfiction I'm also working on at the same time!

I apologize for the lengthy author's note, my goodness. I hope this chapter doesn't seem to rushed, so many people left reviews I thought I should produce something!

/

**TELEVISION**

/

She was speaking to him now, at least, more often than she did before. That suited V just fine. He was a patient man, and often tried to consider her point of view. How would he feel is he was stolen away and kept underground with a bunch of books and art and music?

It was a little harder for him, he supposed, because he was surrounded by the things he loved. Evey on the other hand, would have rather been surrounded by familiar things. Her friends, for one. But there underground, she only had V. She didn't mind talking to him, for the most part. She just hardly knew what to say to him. He didn't strike her as a gossip, and she hardly thought he'd want to hear her complaints on life in general. Especially now. Complaining came naturally during this week of the month, and she often reminded herself of the situation she was in and who she was stuck with.

Terrorist. Kidnapper. Killer.

V thought it was strange that she would still be so distant. Hadn't he offered enough to her? A littler prodding might be in order. He couldn't help but feel sorry for her again, sitting there on the couch flipping through a book. He was glad that she had brought it out to read today, instead of cramping herself in her room. He saw instantly that reading wasn't exactly her cup of tea. She was a bit of a slow reader, taking double the time to read through two pages that he did. Furthermore, what she read didn't stick. He would ask her what chapter she was on, and make a comment. "That happened?" She would ask, and V wouldn't know how to respond. Was he wrong? No, no, he'd read that book countless times. He was absolutely certain. She just couldn't remember all of what she read. A common sign of boredom.

He really couldn't blame her, he supposed, she wasn't accustomed to this life and she had apparently never spent a day just reading. Curse those damn book-on-tapes!

"Tell me, Evey, how would you feel about a movie today?" She lowered her book and shrugged,

"Well, I mean I wouldn't mind watching one."

"You look like you need a break."

"Yeah." She reached for her bookmark, "Yeah, I think I do."

She hadn't really been in that part of the Gallery since he openly admitted to killing the late Lewis Prothero. There were times when she would check the clock and think, "Damn, I'm missing Gordon's show!" But even though he had offered her the telly, she couldn't quite bring herself to use it. It all still felt so wrong.

"I'm afraid I don't have too many movies, they aren't something I collect extensively." He motioned to a small shelf with a fair stack of tapes and a few DVDs, "Since you are my guest, you may choose the film." He waved an arm to the shelf and cleared the way

"Oh, well…" Evey scanned the titles, but didn't see any she recognized. _Clash of the Titans_? What was that? _Rashomon_? _To Kill a Mockingbird_? Wasn't that a book on her shelf? _Around the World in 80 Days, Night of the Living Dead, Psycho…._There were some strange titles, for sure, and absolutely none she had heard of. Did any of them have a happy ending? She really didn't like sad ones…

"Have you chosen?" V's question made her fidget and reach for a random title.

"Yes, um, here. This one." She relinquished the tape—_The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad._

"Ah." V took it, "Wonderful, a movie full of adventure and suspense." He slipped the tape from its case, "Daring sea captains, princesses, treacherous magicians," with a flourish he popped it into the VCR, "Honestly, Evey, I had no idea you enjoyed such movies."

Evey didn't quite know what to say. Did she enjoy an adventure movie every once in a while? Sure. But the artwork on the case was leading her to believe she had picked something she would regret. Was that a Cyclops?

"Please, sit." V motioned to the couch, snapping her out of a daze. With a nod, she sat, and prepared herself for what she believed would be a rather terrible, cheesy film. V was satisfied with the choice. He hadn't seen the film in a while, and now was his chance to discuss it with someone! He could finally tell someone how he felt about the cast, or how the stop motion worked, or even his theories about genies in bottles. They didn't exist, of course, but perhaps with a little _science_ one could—

"Is she…did she become a snake? What am I watching?" Evey interrupted his train of thought. Perhaps he should have been paying attention to the film instead.

"The magician put a spell on her, as you can see."

"It looks so fake."

"Well, therein lies the magic of it all. Nagas are not real, and stopmotion makes her all the more strange and unrealistic. Frightening, perhaps, though her character is supposed to be seductive and exotic." The screen flashed, and the woman reverted back to her human self with a spell from the magician.

"That was strange, she was killing herself." Evey commented

"Perhaps she was not in complete control of her enchanted half. It _was_ a spell, after all." V turned to look at her, "But don't overthink it too much, dear Evey, the movie will explain itself in due time." He couldn't help but feel a bit excited. Finally, a conversational partner for his films! He couldn't ask for more.

The movie played out, extracting a few comments from Evey every so often. "How strange." She said, "I guess stopmotion does add a bit of, well, magic to these characters." Sometimes something would make her giggle a bit, but he never could quite understand what. "It just looked so fake, it was a bit funny I guess." She explained when he finally asked.

Sometimes he would quote along with the movie, "From a land beyond beyond, from a world past hope and fear, I bid you genie, now appear." Evey never found it annoying, rather, she used to do the same with her own movies back home. She believed there was little hope of getting to that point again with these types of movies. _Sinbad_ was fun, she decided. It was interesting and killed some time. Even the terrorist next to her didn't seem so frightening when he was cheering on the hero of the story.

"Yes, yes, parry, side step, ah! If only I could fight a skeleton, how exciting would that be do you wager?" He might have been a little too engrossed in the movie. V never did get up and find his sword, as she expected, though he did look over to her every once in a while to see if she was as excited as he was. "Are you enjoying the movie, Evey?"

"Yes." She nodded, "I mean, yeah, it's interesting." The princess threw the genie's bottle into the lava, and with Sinbad made an escape.

"I'm glad." The movie ended shortly after, prompting V to sigh and turn the VCR off. "I do love Sinbad and his adventures." He turned to her, "I'm happy you could watch it with me."

"Happy?" She breathed

"Of course." He gave a short nod and flipped to a channel. The woman beside him made a small sound, prompting him to turn back to her, "Is something the matter?"

"Oh, no, no. It's Gordon's show." She said quietly, transfixed on the screen, "I never used to miss it."

"You never had to." The masked man stated quietly. Whether she ignored him or simply didn't bother to respond, he wasn't certain. The two watched the nightly segment. Evey found herself laughing quite a bit less than usual, but even the small bits of laughter piqued the terrorist's interest.

Soon he wasn't even paying much attention to the show. Instead he was observing her. How a smile really did suit her face. How charming her laugh sounded when it was sincere. Ah, if only she would be like that always. He didn't mind it, he supposed, if she didn't talk to him all the time. He didn't mind if she didn't know who Voltaire or Michelangelo or Aristotle were. Maybe he just enjoyed what little company she gave him, but he dared think that going back to living a solitary life would be a transition he didn't want to happen.

"Are—is something the matter?" She caught him staring off into space, "I'm sorry, you mustn't like this show very much." She whispered, "We don't have to watch if you don't—"

"Not at all, Miss Evey." He stood, replacing the remote beside him, "It is an unpleasant thing to go to bed without supper, it is a still less pleasant thing to not sup and not know where on is to sleep[1].' That is to say, I find myself famished, and shall cook us some super. In the meantime, you watch your show." He made to leave, but, with a snap, added, "Ah, yes, and please—use this television whenever you want. I know I have told you before, but I honestly and sincerely mean it." She thanked him as he walked away, unsure of what else to say to him. It was becoming very confusing and strange to her. Why would he ever be so kind? He was kind to her the moment he met her, but then suddenly wouldn't let her leave. It was all very odd. Something still seemed so wrong, she just couldn't put a finger on it…

/

"Thank you." She murmured when the bowl of soup was placed in front of her. Soup was always a favorite during the winter, and she was feeling the cold especially now. The Gallery wasn't the warmest place she had ever lived in. She swirled the leeks and potatoes around with her spoon and contemplated how difficult it would be to acquire some wool socks.

"Is everything to your liking?" V interrupted her thoughts, as he often did.

"I was just wondering, I guess." She stopped playing with the spoon, "Would it be too much trouble for some warmer clothing?" The masked man's silence prompted her to speak more, to amend her forward question, "That is, well, my clothing is fine, I just am not used to living in a place with stone floors, you see…" He didn't answer right away, merely stroked his fake beard as she dipped her head to her bowl, "Sorry, it was a silly question."

"Now don't be hasty. No question is a silly one." The mask tipped to the side, "Make a list of what it is you desire, I shall find it for you." The smile she gave in response was enough for him. It was a curious thing, he found, to really see her smile. It was keeping her smiling that was bound to prove difficult. Just how would he go about doing it?

And what of the dinner discussion for tonight? Generally what he could extract from her was an answer to his nightly question, "Is the meal to your liking?" and sometimes, "What are you reading lately?" She often followed it up with prolonged silence or a shrug, which was mildly irritating, but patience was key. Patience always paid off in the end, V knew.

"Oh, I was looking through the guide." Evey spoke, giving V quite the start, "_Monty Python and the Holy Grail_ is on tomorrow. May I watch it?"

"Of course." The mask man nodded, "I'm not sure if I've seen it. I recall the name, but I remember the word circus in the title…"

"No, no." She shook her head

"Ah, then I have not."

"You should watch it with me." The statement was out before she had time to think it. Though she couldn't see it, behind the smiling visage of Guy Fawkes, the man was smiling too,

"I'd love to."

/

Evey enjoyed comedies. She enjoyed the fact that she could just laugh and let her worries float away. They did say laughter was the best medicine, did they not? Though it felt awkward at first, being the only one to laugh during a film she really found amusing, she came to accept that perhaps the terrorist just didn't have a sense of humor. But, little by little, the low, guttural chuckle escaped the mask's lips. Then a little louder. He seemed different when he laughed. Maybe not as frightening. The voice seemed to finally match up to the mask. Happy.

"I wasn't sure about it at first, ah, but I'm glad I watched this." V quipped when the credits rolled, "I suppose I never found many comedies to my liking."

"This movie often cheers me up." The two sat before the credits, saying nothing until the commercials began playing. Evey was left to her own devices, wondering how someone like V could possibly be the terrorist she thought he was. What terrorist would _act_ like this? "V?" She spoke, suddenly more curious than her fear of him would allow

"Mm?" He turned and gave her his full attention. She swallowed hard, searching for the words,

"Are you still planning to blow up Parliament?"

"Yes." The sincerity and ease of his answer threw her off,

"I'm finding it hard to believe that you will. I was there when you blew up the Old Bailey. I was there when you attacked the BTN." The mask nodded, urging her to continue, "But I just can't understand how it would help. How will blowing up a building help?"

V thought for a moment, the silence only broken by the television that was still playing. He flicked it off and answered, "It entirely depends on whom you think I should be helping. By blowing up Parliament, am I helping anything progress? Of course. I've said it once, and you've heard it before. The government is nothing but oppressive. Though peaceful protest has often worked in favor of the people, I cannot stand idly by. Fewer will be harmed this way. And in the end, the people will have a taste of my mistress. Anarchy."

"Anarchy?"

"She is both good and terrible. The country needs a change, and she is the answer. You need to understand, Evey, 'You can't go around building a better world for people. Only people can build a better world for people. Otherwise it's just a cage[2].' I'll provide the means of making a better world. They have to do the rest." Evey couldn't find the words to say how she felt. This man before her was crazy! How could anarchy solve anything?

"Anarchy. You want to take freedom to a dangerous level, then?"

"How free is freedom? 'Liberty is liberty, not equality or fairness or justice or human happiness or a quiet conscience[3].' There is nothing dangerous about being free. It's what one does with freedom than can be dangerous."

She didn't like his answers. Deep down in there, it seemed, he was still only out for himself. His own agenda. A vendetta. Were people unhappy with the government? Of course. Were there protests? All the time. This seemed extreme. Such an extreme opposition had to come from somewhere. Maybe he really was just a crazy person with way too much time on his hands.

"What will you do, then?" She asked, not daring to look at the mask, "After you blow up Parliament?" The mask dipped low and she heard a soft sigh,

"That, you see, I am not quite sure of." Terrorism, it seemed, was all he knew. She wondered if he would just remain down here, among his trinkets and odds and ends, while London burned to the ground. Safe, knowing no one would find him. Happy, knowing he accomplished his goal. The thought made her sick, and even a little jealous. Her life was just as uncertain, if not more. What would she do among all of that change? She didn't want any part of this. Not now, not ever.

"I'm sorry to leave, but I find I have a prior engagement I must attend to." The terrorist left her there on the couch, wondering where he could possibly be going. It was a while before she got up—even after hearing the door open and shut, and all of the locks click into place.

"He doesn't want to make a cage for the people," She thought sullenly, "Yet here I am, trapped in the Shadow Gallery."

/

[1] Victor Hugo, _Hunchback of Notre Dame_

[2] Terry Pratchett, _Witches Abroad_

[3] Isaiah Berlin


	5. Games

GAMES

/

She'd come to accept him, for the most part. That strange masked man who played the piano, spoke of Plato, Da Vinci, Archimedes, and once made a smiley face bacon and egg breakfast. She wouldn't say she liked him. Refused, actually. He would do something once in a while. Something charming and sweet, and she would wonder, "Could he possibly be such a bad person underneath it all?" But then she would remind herself of her situation, and of all the things he had done and would do.

Nothing, it seemed, would stop her from finding a way out. She would leave. She was determined.

He knew she still wasn't comfortable there. He knew, but was running out of ways to help her feel comfortable. He tried to give her space, tried to leave her to her own devices. No, that didn't work. He tried to engage her in activities, socialize. No, no, that didn't work either. What did this woman want? What did she need?

He took to studying her for a short time. It was, decidedly, creepy. But what else could he do? She was difficult on purpose, he understood, she didn't like him, he knew, but perhaps they could at least reach some sort of understanding…

She sighed lightly as she turned a page in her book. Her eyes danced across it for a moment before slowing, and altogether halting somewhere in the middle.

Entertainment.

She needed that right now. The words of Victor Hugo were probably not the best at the moment. Why did he ever suggest that book to her? He knew how bored she would become…

"Evey." She blinked a few times and resumed scanning the page.

"Yes?"

"Would you care to watch something with me?" The woman shook her head,

"No, I'm not quite in the mood." Hm, well, that was different. She must have exhausted her energies the past few days on the poor television. He pondered a moment. Entertainment. Entertainment. Hm.

"Would you care to play a game with me?" She paused and slowly turned her head to face him.

"What sort of game?" He had piqued her interest, he could see that spark in her eye. Now to just keep it.

"I have quite a collection of board games at our disposal." He stood and held out a gloved hand, "Come, let us find one of your liking." He pulled her up, and together they trekked to the laundry room where he kept them. Stacks of board games lined the shelves, salvaged from second hand shops, dumpsters, and parks where little kids left them. V skimmed over the chess sets. Chess was an easy, fun game. Strategy games were the best, in his opinion. The first box had glass pieces, a rook was missing. The second one was plastic, broken. Third was old and chewed to bits by a very bitey child. Maybe the fourth—

"Oh, you have Cluedo." Evey piped up just as V had decided which chess set he might pull from the shelf, "I used to play that game with my mum." She made to reach for the box, wedged between Monopoly and Connect Four. It was just out of reach, and though watching her struggle on tip toes to take it might have been amusing for a short while, V couldn't stand idly by.

"Allow me." He reached above her, pulling the game free from its prison. "Ah, here we are." He examined the box cover. He hadn't played this game. Not with another person, anyway. That is, he hadn't played any of his games with other people. At last, his opponent would be a bit of a challenge! Now which color piece would he pick…?

"Shall we play it, then?" Evey spoke softly, jarring the masked man from his thoughts. He gave a nod, and waved an arm that said 'lead the way.' The game was set up in the kitchen, as it was the only place a table could be found with two chairs around it and clear of sculpture. All of the pieces were, thankfully, there, with perhaps the exception of the lead pipe piece. As a gentleman, V was bound to let Evey choose her pawn first, even when she told him he could have first pick.

"Mr. Green?" V commented on her choice, "Favorite color?"

"Maybe." She set the pawn in his home square, "I was always Mr. Green for some reason. Not sure color has anything to do with it." V knew color inspired his choice. For him, Miss Scarlett. The devilish rogue would play as the sultry seductress. The very thought brought forth a chuckle from him. Evey didn't dare comment.

Crazy person.

Cards were dealt, inventories checked. She made to roll when she caught him eyeing the instructions. "Do you know how to play this game?"

"It has been a while. I'll remember, I assure you." And remember he did. It was simple, he found, this mystery-detective game. One just needed to know what to look for. How to ask questions. Evey had undoubtedly played this countless times, so he would need to be crafty. Cunning. Give red herrings and lead her astray. Perhaps winning would impress her. "Ha!" He thought to himself as he rolled the die, "Yes, what better way to impress her than to win such a game?"

It had been a while since she played, that much was true. But really, how hard was it to play Cluedo? In her hand she contained four room cards, finding the correct room would probably be a cinch! Who shuffled these cards anyway….

She wasn't very good with a pokerface, that Evey. He could see when she knew something, and though the gleam in her eye was a delight, he would simply have to prove he was the master detective! It was simple, really, one could deduce from the way she asked such simple, straightforward, searching questions. When she found her answer, he had already found it two turns before. Yes, with another roll, he'd be in the parlor and make his final hypothesis.

"My dear Evey, I do believe…" here he paused, for dramatic tension, "That it was Mrs. Peacock with the revolver in the parlor." She poured through her cards twice, and upon realizing she had none of the aforementioned, shrugged and shook her head.

"Well, I guess….I guess that's correct?" He offered her the Confidential pocket, from which she drew the three cards. "Gee…That was fast." She couldn't hide the disappointment in such a speedy game – had Cluedo always gone so quickly?

"Ah, Mrs. Peacock – that sly old biddy couldn't pull a fast one on this old boy!" He thought to himself, "It was obvious, really, who else would be so proud as to use a revolver in the parlor? Except, perhaps, that devious Colonel. Or even Madame Scarlett! The vexing vixen!" But he had to wonder, was Evey really trying in that last round? Perhaps she had given him the win in order to throw him off guard. Aha! That had to be it! That sly woman thought she could pull a fast on him by playing dumb, did she? Well, not with this masked marauder! He'd find the culprit this time too, and show her she'd have to be a little more cunning than that!

Across the table, Evey checked off her scorecard in silence. The first game was over so fast she hardly noticed. Oh well – this time she'd have him. With new cards dealt and a roll of the die, the game began again. "Mrs White with the, uh, rope in the conservatory…?"

"I can clear the good Mrs. White's name." said V, with a flourish of his hand, "for I am in possession of her vapid visage." He sure did like to be dramatic about it, Evey couldn't help but think.

But as with the last game, it ended very quickly. "I do believe it was Professor Plum, the devilish cad, with the lead pipe in the kitchen! Of all places!" The woman floundered through her cards. She didn't have one. V brandished his hand revealing he didn't either – another victory for him? The unpacking of the cards would reveal he had won again. Even faster than the first time.

"Care for another round?" the masked man asked excitedly. How he did love playing detective. She agreed, thinking, maybe, she needed a new strategy. Nothing worked, however, and she was beaten again. And a fourth time. And again a fifth.

"Who knew the culprit was you all along Evey! Mr. Green is certainly more fiendish than I previously expected!" He swept the cards off the board and began sorting them again. "Another round, Evey?" It might have been his excitement, maybe his enthusiasm, but he missed the look in her eyes. The unimpressed, dejected pout that played about her face. The wrinkle in her brow, her slumped, defeated posture –

"No…no, I think I'm done with this game." The terrorist paused mid-shuffle, took a glance at his unhappy partner and faltered. "Well, perhaps another…?" As he placed the pieces back into the box he urged her to find another game. "Any game will do, dear Evey. Pick anything you like."

As she slunk off to the laundry room, she couldn't help but feel annoyed. She used to be so good at that game, how could it have ended so badly? And more than once! Well, she'd get him this time, that was for sure. Now, what did he have…

Battleship.

She'd never played, but she used to watch the boys play it at the center all the time. A game meant for two players seemed fair enough. She'd definitely have a better advantage this time. Prying it out from its home between Husker-Do and LIFE proved to be a bit of a task, but it eventually yielded to her efforts, and she turned back with a new game. "Ah." The masked man breathed when he saw the title, "A game of strategy and naval battle – a very good choice, Evey." Cluedo had been packed and placed on a counter, the table lay bare in anticipation of the next entertainment. "I must admit, dear Evey, I have never played this game before." But he did keep it around just in case the day came that he might!

"Well, neither have I." She pulled out the instructions and internally celebrated. Yes, she'd win this one no problem. She'd watched this game so often in the past there was no way she wouldn't. As V set up the game, Evey read the rules. He took them in and surveyed his board. "This should be fun." Thought the terrorist to himself, "I know Evey was holding back on me before." He saw her eyes narrow in concentration as she chose spots for her ships. "I'll have to be very careful to beat her at this game!"

On the other side Evey looked at her setup. "I just need a good corner to put this last piece in…yes, there." She recalled a setup that never failed her friend all those years ago. She couldn't fail like this.

And so, the game began. "B3."

"Miss."

"Drat."

"J9"

"Miss."

"Hmm."

"A4."

It was actually quite a while before anyone had a hit. "E2." Evey's reflex had her reach for the white 'miss' marker before she heard him exclaim,

"Hit!" The masked villain reeled back, "My God, my fleet is under fire!" Evey couldn't help but smile – yes, perfect! She'd have a win in no—

"A10."

"Mi—er—um—hit?" Evey spluttered. Oh dear, now he was on equal ground…

"Aha! Thought you could outsmart me and hide your crew in corners like that!" V laughed, "Not today, Captain Evey!" It was only minutes before Evey had one battleship left. V still had three. The tides had definitely turned, and suddenly all hope for an easy win was off. How could this setup fail her so much?

Just as like Cluedo, Evey watched her strategies fail again and again. She never thought herself competitive until V rather abruptly told her to stop going easy on him. She wanted very much to show him he could be clever and cunning, that she was also a force to be reckoned with. So far all she had done was paint a pretty portrait of how predictable she really was.

"Let's try this instead." She found a deck of UNO cards. Failure after failure she faced. No matter how many WILD cards she saved in order to trick him on her last move, he always had something else up his sleeve. She hoped not literally, but she couldn't prove he was a cheat. No honor among thieves - er - terrorists. She could hear in the back of her mind, an inscription she saw etched in an old textbook, "The winner of the game is the one who makes the next-to-last mistake [1]." But, try as she might, it seemed just about every move she made was a mistake - and none of it was helping her win!

They only played one round of monopoly. It was all Evey would suffer through. "Did you know, Evey," the masked man poured through the property cards to find Reading Railroad, "that this game was invented in the United States during their Great Depression? Though its believed it was conceived as a game to explain taxes even earlier than that!"

"Had no idea." She was never taught much about other countries in school, save that they were backwards, and what else would she care to know anyway?

Try as he might to urge her into conversation, all talk fell flat. Her eyes stayed squarely on her money and the board and her little dog pawn. She thought the game long and boring and all but lost the minute V had houses on the board. Why did she ever agree to play games with him?

"Yes, wonderful!" V exclaimed, "I knew that would be a wise investment to buy houses early." He glanced as his less-than-enthused partner and faltered. "Perhaps….Perhaps a spot of dinner, dearest Evey?" She shrugged and began placing pieces back in the box. He rather hated her habit of shrugging.

He made a light meal, just some canned soup and a sandwich, and chatted the entire time. "Don't you ever eat?" She asked, exasperated

"No, my dear, not at all. I do not need to eat, you see!" He stroked his masked chin, "I live off of the sight, the sound, the smell of revolution!" She nearly rolled her eyes at him, "And of course...a pretty girl's smile." the poor woman nearly choked on her soup at that. That old cad! Disgusting man, flirting with his own prisoner, had he now shame? She felt it very much as embarrassment crept into her features and graced her cheeks with a light pink. Damn that man.

"You will find none of that here, then." Her gaze locked onto her soup and refused to move. He only meant it as a compliment - however he did prefer her when she smiled. Wouldn't anyone?

He wouldn't let her wash the dishes, and instead asked her to fetch another game. "I'd really rather retire for the evening…" was her unenthusiastic reply

"Nonsense. One more game, Evey, just one, then you are free to your own devices." She pulled from the stack the chess board with a missing queen. V insisted on taking the incomplete set and in place of the queen used a salt shaker. "My queen certainly looks a bit off." He chuckled, "Such weight she has put on! My God, save the queen, she looks quite ready to die of a heart attack!" Evey didn't find it quite as funny.

She'd played a long time ago. Once or twice. She hated chess, more than checkers, and she really hated checkers. Knowing she wouldn't win this time, she didn't care where the pieces landed.

"Knights move in fours, like this." He showed her all the ways a knight could move on the board. Then rooks, bishops, pawns, the queen, and the king. "Protect your king, Evey, I am coming for him!" And that he did. It was a hard battle. She absent-mindedly moved her pawns around the board. Sometimes catching a piece of his, often he caught hers. He took a very long time to move a piece, often, and Evey was getting bitterly annoyed by it.

"What an odd strategy." V thought to himself, "Why, I know she would go for my exposed pawn, but no, she moved her knight instead. What a silly move for I - oh wait, it would leave my queen entirely exposed to hers and then what will I do without my poor, fat queen then? God save her." Evey made another strange move, and after some pondering, he realized she was very close to Check. "Damn, she's much more clever than I expected. I'll need to bring around my defenses. She's already stolen my one knight, poor lad, he fought bravely. But as it is said, "When you see one good move, look for a better one. [2]"

She had him and didn't even realize. He pointed to the board, "That is a Check, Evey." He calculated and planned, looked for openings and closings and came up with confusion and muddled thoughts. "She's far too clever!" This realization made his heart soar, "That devilish woman, she was playing coy all along." He chuckled aloud and the woman started to wonder what he was up to, "How I love her for it, so sly, throwing me off at every curve! I did believe I would have an easy win, after all, a player half surprised is a player half-beaten![3]"

He was muttering unintelligible things to himself, and she was very worried. Another few moves, and she had won, though she did not know it right away. He had been fidgeting and hovering over the board, studying every piece, going back and forth aloud about the moves he should make. Suddenly, winning wasn't quite as delectable. In fact, it was downright nerve wracking. Had he snapped?

"Evey!" His shouting made her jump out of skin, "You conniving woman, how dare you play dumb when you clearly are a much cleverer opponent than you let on!" She stammered out an apology, but he did not miss the twinkle in her eye, the satisfaction of a win - a win that she did not expect, "I am beside myself! I am beyond impressed! You had me fooled all along, there is an actress deep within you still." He stood suddenly and lifted her from her seat. "Come, let us celebrate your flawless victory with a quick sparring match and a pint of the best ale Chancellor Sutler's vans are packing!" He spun her around and she yelped in fright. The man had really lost it this time! "Come, Evey, spar with me!"

"No. No, no, no." It was too much for her, and his excitement was frightening to a degree. She thought he would surely do something even crazier than before, "I think I'd really rather go to bed!"

The mask's black slits turned to meet her brown eyes, and he saw no happiness or excitement as he felt for her. No hint of a smile or pride. Just tiredness - fear? "Alright, Evey." His head tilted away, ashamed of his outburst, his hair covered the mask and she could see it no more. "Have a good night." His chin raised as he said this, but still he did not look at her. His hands clasped behind his back with the rapier he had grabbed still in his hand. She backed away slowly,

"Goodnight." She said very quietly, and then hurried to her room. Crazy man.

He was left there in the Gallery, alone, with no one but his suit of armor. He studied it and spoke, "You mock me, do you?" The sword hit the armor very hard and he lashed again and again until he stood breathless and in silence. "You're a silly little boy' Said the Lord of the Flies, 'just and ignorant silly little boy.[4]" he muttered to himself and the sword slipped from his gloved hand to the plush carpet below.

His outburst had been purely from happiness, but she had misunderstood. Dejectedly, he slumped in front of his paintings, not bothering to give them another glance. In the morning he would apologize for being so brash and ungentlemanly.

Until then, sleep.

[1] Savielly Tartakover  
>[2] Emanuel Lasker<br>[3] Proverb  
>[4] William Golding, Lord of the Flies<p>

/

I could apologize and make excuses all night about my lack of updates. I truly am sorry. But I hope to continue updating. This chapter was half in the works when suddenly my life was turned upside down. My writing has changed a bit, probably for the worse. Please accept my deepest apologies, and as always, I thank everyone for their kind and helpful comments. It has been a while since I've thought of this fic, and I don't recall how I intended to end it originally. But onward I shall press with it, and I hope to see that it gets there!


	6. Freedom

FREEDOM

/

She didn't need to wonder how long she had been trapped in that underground prison. V kept a calendar, plain as day, on a coffee table. Each day he would rip off another piece and there the large, black numbers would burn in her mind. They seemed to flow together, at times, and others, they seemed disjointed. Wasn't it just the 10th yesterday? How is it now the 15th?

It was late December. For the past month and a half she shivered in the cold dwelling beneath London, vowing to herself she would never get used to it. She, Evey Hammond, would never enjoy this place or her captor - with his cruel habit of offering her every temptation, in attempt to make her feel happiness or gratitude. She didn't want to feel that either. What kind of man walks around in a mask and steals unwilling young women? A weird one. A creepy one.

He had been through every length to gain her trust. She wouldn't accept them. "What is it that dear Mademoiselle desires?" He bent down on a knee and took her hand as if promising the world to her if she might only ask

"Freedom." She firmly replied.

The mask tilted away and shook slowly. "Ah, but it is the one gift I dearly so want to give you, my sweet Evey..." He stood and towered over her, his hair sweeping over the face of Guy Fawkes, "But alas, it is my deepest regret that I cannot grant you this wish just yet." Her expression seemed to say, 'Well, you asked.' And he duly noted it.

She didn't like him and his eccentric ways. She had considered her options every waking moment of her imprisonment. She turned up the volume on the telly and the Wurlitzer while V was away in hopes the noise was enough to attract someone passing by.

Wherever she was.

V seemed nonplussed by her stunt, and merely told her there were Q-tips under the sink. She searched for two ways radios, a phone, a loose wire, anything that would help her contact the outside world. She searched through every book for something to help her escape the place. None seemed to have a real resolution. Even the "How to Survive" book had idealized situations and nearly all of them were unhelpful. Lockpicking - now that would have been useful. She would brave the traps beyond the door. It was better than being a helpless accomplice.

Certainly she thought of what would happen when she got out. She would just explain everything that happened to the police, tell them the location of the terrorist V, and probably live with a friend until everything was sorted out. Maybe she would even be a little bit of a hero. The hero who suffered through unspeakable horror below London with Britain's most wanted terrorist. The insane, easily provoked terrorist who could snap at any minute - kill her at any second and without warning as he did those who worked at the BTN.

The thoughts kept her going. Evey the hero. Poor woman could have died, but she bravely held her head high in defiance against the terrorist V. She would be on the news, no doubt. It would be hard being famous, but she was sure she could handle it.

Her eyes were clouded with fanciful thoughts of being hailed a brave survivor, and V, naturally, took notice. He had glanced sideways as they watched Gordon's late night show together. A habit they had both become accustomed to. She always huddled on her side of the couch, and he, very carefully, stayed on his. Best not intrude on her space. As the show dragged into its final hour, he noticed her eyes had glazed over. He was glad to know he was not the only one who found the show especially trivial tonight, but he knew Gordon Deitrich always captured her full attention.

"Evey?" He said her name softly. She blinked and snapped into reality. With a deep breath, she replied,

"Yes?" the woman didn't even give him a sideways glance.

"You seem a bit...distracted tonight."

"Just lost in thought."

"Any that you might honor me with sharing?"

"Not particularly." The masked man bowed his head at that and relinquished the tv remote to her.

"I'm off to do some shopping." She knew he wasn't really shopping. No one shopped at 11pm. Crazy man. Crazy. "As always if there is anything you need, I will-"

"No."

"Yes. Well." He bowed his head again, turned on his heel, and went for his coat. "Good night, dear Evey." His hat was in place, and he was gone. She counted each lock as it clicked. One...two...three, four, five….six, seven...eight...nine, and ten.

Ten locks.

To keep her in?

Or someone else out?

Maybe lighting the wooden door on fire would help her escape. Or kill her. At this point, which was preferable? What was there to look forward to if she did escape? Her mind kept the hero image swirling in her thoughts. It was a fun thought. A preferred thought. A silly thought. An impossible thought.

It didn't matter how hospitable he acted toward her. It didn't matter if he happened to be there and save her that night. It didn't matter that he walked her home, either. That he bought her favorite cereal, cooked her meals, washed her laundry, played games with her, bought her movies, makeup, books, clothes - no! None of it mattered. He was dangerous. He was crazy. She would catch him talking to himself, muttering crazy things, things that made no sense. He talked to the fridge for God's sake! The fridge! Wearing the mask went without saying. How could anyone trust a person who wore a mask. Freak. Monster. The comments he made as he observed her. Disgusting. The man had no shame, catching her at every moment her expression changed, her posture, her choice of clothing. Everything he noted, and everything he had a comment for. Creep.

She had to get out of there.

/

He was enjoying Grendel in front of his wall of paintings. "Oh Grendel, you devil." the masked man chuckled, "You never touch a dragon's treasure!" He had read the book often, and each time it seemed to be a different adventure. Sometimes Grendel was a wretched, foul creature of the damned bloodline of Cain. A monster who could never sate his bloodlust and died a perfect, dishonorable death. Sometimes Grendel was a misunderstood creature. A creature so disfigured and wretched that he never had a chance to be accepted and merely lashed out in the only way his instinctive, primal nature knew how. Sometimes Grendel was merely a poetic asshole. Or all three. V enjoyed the story no matter how it seemed to read in his mind that particular time. "Such wise words, old dragon, "Find a pile of gold and sit on it![1]"

She approached him then, with only one thought on her mind; freedom. "V…?" she jarred him from Grendel's words. The black slits of the mask met her own brown eyes. He said nothing, expecting nothing. How hard it was to surprise him, but he did not expect her to approach him for what she asked.

She wanted to help him.

Now that, truly, was a change of heart he would never have expected. Desired? Why of course! Two masked vigilantes plotting and planning beneath the streets of London in the name of their true and terrible, beautiful and poetic mistress; Anarchy. Why, it was the thing he could only dream of but even V knew such a thing was impossible. Improbable.

He couldn't help but notice her posture. The slight shake in her hands that she clasped subtly in front of her. The way she blinked far too rapidly, then not at all. Acceptance was all he would ever ask of her. This would never be the case, it seemed.

He accepted her help as gratefully as a person who knows they are being lied to could manage. But what else could he expect from his captive? He lived among secrets and lies, built up his life around them if only to expose them. So why should he be offended? Because he expected more from her…?

The Bishop. He was next on the list. He clearly recalled the woman's reaction to the late Lewis Prothero's untimely death, but she wanted to assist him. Would she be able to do as he asked? Precisely to the letter? He didn't need her, but a distraction would, ultimately, add a bit of sport to the Bishop's death. Maybe he was enjoying the whole killing aspect too much…

/

She didn't like his idea. It was disgusting. To think a man as renowned and prominent and holy as Bishop Lilliman would ever, ever commit such heinous, repulsive, despicable acts. Horrible. She couldn't believe him. She couldn't believe the masked man would ever lie about something like that. What holy man would ever take to raping young children? What man of God would ever hurt a child like that? It was sickening, blasphemous. "You're wrong." She told him, "You're wrong. Disgusting. Religion - our church - it's the only thing that gives people hope anymore. You're a fool to try to destroy it based on - on - outright revolting lies such as these!"

"Remember, Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies. [2]" Evey was pink with rage, embarrassment. "You chose to help me. You may very well sit here while I have a chat with the esteemed Bishop."

No.

"Or…" V inclined his head toward her, "You may dress yourself as I have instructed and merely play your part as the actress you are beneath that shroud of timidness."

In the end she accepted. She accepted because deep in her heart she knew the Bishop would never do anything to harm her. He would never touch her, and right away come to her aid, and she would save him from whatever harm V might do. Everything would work out just fine. She followed him quietly to his dressing room, where she waited outside as he instructed. He produced a rather ridiculously colored dress. Something a girl might wear for a Halloween costume or play production. Why this masked man would ever have something so garish and strange was beyond her. She didn't really care to know. The end was in sight. The door for her escape was being opened. She had it in her grasp, she just needed to continue with the charade. No matter how immoral.

He commanded her to change, quickly, for the night would soon grow old. The material was itchy and bothersome in all the wrong places. It was too tight in some areas and too loose in product of faulty warehouse sewing machines. Her reflection revealed a tired, desperate person. One willing to do this insane task set before her to gain the freedom she sought. Evey didn't want to show her face to the masked man. Not the way the too-short dress fit, or how immature the shoes made her feel. Shame seeped from every inch of her frame when she shuffled into the dim light of the Gallery. V turned away.

"Come then, sit here." He motioned to the seat in front of his vanity mirror. The lights were blinding, enchanting, and drew her in as they had before. The person in the mirror was not her. No, it was some distorted caricature of the old Evey. Dressed up for murder in a clownish outfit. It only worsened from there. V had makeup. A lot of makeup. For what purpose - a fetish perhaps - Evey could only guess. She did not ask, merely tried to still her fast-beating heart. The adrenaline was setting in. Oh, why wouldn't he apply it faster?

He worked gently, quickly, applying layer after layer of foundation, rouge, lipstick, eyeshadow. He accentuated her more delicate features, hid the mature, feminine ones. She began shaking halfway through. Stage fright, he suspected. Happens to the best of actors and actresses alike. He tried chatting with her, he really did. "Why Evey, I dare say you have the softest brown eyes I have ever had the fortune of gazing upon."

She looked away and didn't respond.

She looked like a clown. A perfectly awful clown. Horrendous. "Magnifique!" The terrorist exclaimed, "You are so enchanting, Evey, why, even the old fool Bishop could not resist you, given your age and all that." She could feel her face burning just as red as the rouge that caked her cheeks.

He brushed her hair, and angry tears threatened to form. How dare this terrorist kidnap her and embarrass her like this. In front of Bishop Lilliman no less! She prayed God would forgive her. Wherever he was.

/

She was running. Running as fast as she could in thick, uncomfortable, ill-shapen heels. "Run." Evey told herself, "Run. Just run. Keep running. Run or he'll catch you. RUN." Her sedentary life had cursed this very moment. Her lungs threatened to burst, her heart ached, every fiber of her being begged her to stop.

She had to give in. She couldn't keep running.

Everything ached. Her breaths were labored and painful. The cold enveloped her scantily clad frame. Warmth. She needed warmth. Only a short distance to go. A few more streets, and she would be at Gordon's. He was the closest to the church.

But would he believe her?

No time for those thoughts. Get to his house.

A noise behind her. She turned quickly and found nothing. Panic was setting in. If she didn't get there soon, the masked man would definitely find her and kill her. She was very careful about staying in the shadows, avoiding security vans. Gods, if she was caught after curfew, there was no telling…

The blood was pumping in her ears. Her ankles hurt. She slipped on a patch of ice and skinned her knee. Everything was numb from the cold. So cold. Freezing. She was no longer shivering.

The house was close. Just a few more steps. Just a few more.

A few more.

_Run_.

/

The trek had been well over a mile away. But there she was, safe, warm, a little delirious. Evey lay naked in the bed she was given, curled up under layers of thick blankets. The costume she had been instructed to wear lay in near shreds at the edge of the bed. Never would she be used as a prop in a murderer's plan ever again. No, she would never be strung along like a puppet. The cause of meaningless death.

She didn't care to move. Sometimes even breathing hurt. How long had she been tucked away in that bed? A clock was not within view. The half shaded windows pooled warm light to parts of her room.

She was warm. She was numb.

She didn't want the Bishops death but…

But.

V. He had been right. The very moment she realized, and after when V flew through the window, she knew her time to run was then. She knew he was right, and for doubting him, she was sorry. It was the only true apology she felt toward him at that moment. The very idea that this terrorist - this madman - had been correct made her sick to her stomach. "Wretched, disgusting, vile." She thought, "Despicable…" She might have cried, realizing, in fact, the church had really been so gone. They preached morals, the preached goodness, order, hope...yet the leaders stood for none of these. Those that everyone trusted so willingly, blindly, were the very opposite of what they had claimed to be. Everyone had been so happy when the Norsefire party promised to bring the church back to its former splendor. It really seemed as though they had...

The look of the late Bishop's face was still in her mind. Lustful, wanting, terrifying. He wouldn't listen to her. And now he lay dead. For the better? No. No, killing was wrong. He could have been locked away, or tried. Anything. Killing didn't solve problems. Just bred more.

Scandal.

She gave up trying to justify the Bishop's actions. They, simply, were not justifiable. For her whole life she had been made to trust these religious figures. The telly, the radio, the paper. All would praise them, glorify them, and she could not be more proud that her country had at least a form of government, religion, and order. God save the United States, and all the countries of the world. They had regressed to the Middle Ages, it seemed. They had nothing. The world had nothing. At least here…

If V continued his killing spree, who would be next? Undoubtedly the Chancellor. Without him, what order would be left? What shred of anything would this country have left? Nothing. All would fall victim to the chaos that ensued. Gangs would take over and govern the frightened masses as they pleased. The fate of the backward country of the United States would befall Britain.

How could anyone ever want that?

She knew what her parents had stood for all those years ago. Young though she was, holding signs that called for reform in a language that only barely made sense to her, she understood their stance. The government was controlling, but wasn't it all for the greater good? And she was not so blind, brainwashed, that she did not understand that it was the very government that they protested who took her parents away from her. She did not have to be told they had died, she merely knew it in her heart. "People don't come back when the government wants 'em gone, Evey." someone told her once. She was young then, too.

Rolling over caused her headache to spike. Too much thinking. Too much remembering. "Mum and Dad never liked what this country was." She told herself, "So why should you…"

V's words had really poisoned her. She didn't like thinking about them, and instead, tried to imagine how easy life had been before she had been caught up in this mess. How she longed to be in her flat in her cozy armchair with a bit of tea and a cake. How she wished she could even afford cake. Evey thought of the variety of food she had been introduced to in the Shadow Gallery, all the while telling herself it was stolen and wrong to have and enjoy it. Food she hadn't seen since her younger years. Butter, pie, syrup…

Damn that V, damn him and his insane visions of a world of do-as-you-please. She couldn't even think for two minutes of her normal life before it was all turned upside down because of him! If only she hadn't helped him that day. If only she had listened to her own reason.

Gordon called her. It was past noon. Time to get up.

/

Christmas had passed in a rather uneventful way. The new year arrived in much the same fashion.

"I'd wager it's rather dangerous for you to be showing your face so suddenly." Gordon told her over their evening meal. They picked at chicken and rice, but found the conversation always going back to politics. "From what you've told me, and I very well understand it isn't everything, I would wait until the whole problem with Bishop Lilliman settles down a bit." He absentmindedly made a mountain out of his rice. The news reports indicated that V had struck again, killing another of Britain's most esteemed figures. He had been the problem of quite a many things, according to Gordon. A dam broke - undoubtedly it was V, a hospital was infected by a strain of MRSA - obviously the terrorist, the watershed came up positive for dangerous bacteria - who else but V? "He seems rather good at being the cause of just about everything. I hear he even stole Christmas from orphans." Gordon had said

Evey didn't want to talk about Bishop Lilliman or V again. Gordon had always made her feel at ease, helped her see the bright side of life, and like countless others across the nation, he made her laugh. It seemed that all of his jokes were falling flat now and his serious demeanor left a bad taste in her mouth. It had been a blow to her heart when he confessed his attractions - not to her, but to other men. Illegal. "Alert authorities of any homosexuals." They told her in school, "They only strive to defile the pure and wholesome image that this country upholds with pride."

Maybe years ago she would have notified someone without a second thought. Maybe she would have...maybe.

She was mad at him at first - unsure if it was that he lied to her, or that she had been used to continue his facade, or perhaps because she wanted to love him - even make love to him - but it didn't matter. He housed her and helped her. It did no good to be angry, and after a few days, she had reasonably put her emotions aside and asked, again, for his help.

"You can't go back to your flat, Evey, they've got it under strict surveillance. You'll be arrested and tortured."

"No, no, they'll listen, I know where V lives, I really...I do!" She hesitated only because she knew it was underground, and that was it. He had her blindfolded as they left. At the time she hadn't thought it would matter.

"You don't seem so certain." Gordon pushed his plate aside, suddenly not very hungry, "I care about you, Evey. I wouldn't be urging you to stay put if I didn't." He held her hand and squeezed it gently. She hated him for it, "You've been through a great deal. I understand your resentment, but maybe change is a good thing. Maybe this country really needs a change."

"Maybe…"

"You know as well as I do, Evey, you understand the government is corrupt."

"It's better than none at all." Gordon sighed heavily,

"Yes, and no. Mostly no. I think I have something you should read." He brought her to his secret room. The room that reminded her of the Shadow Gallery. She hated that room, and only wished that Gordon wasn't such a fool to keep it all. If anyone caught wind of it, there would be no telling what they would do to him. He paused in front of a small bookshelf crammed with different tomes of what Evey supposed were banned books. Some of the titles she recognized. "Here." He pulled a very slim book from the mass and handed it to her.

"Animal Farm?" She had seen the title in her room but had never felt like reading about a bunch of animals.

"You may find a bit of yourself in this book, Evey. In fact, I know you will." Refusing to look him in the eye, she trudged to his living room and, without much else to do, began to read.

/

It was the next day. The radio was playing softly and she was alone. Animal Farm was at her side, finished. Blankly she stared ahead, into the gas-lit fireplace. A luxury she could have never afforded on her salary, but Gordon could.

The pieces of information that had been gathering in her brain were finally lining up. It was true. She had been nothing but a sheep. She had known her entire life everything was wrong, but she did nothing about it. Why though? Fear? Ignorance?

Through this silly childrens book, Evey finally understood what was happening around her. "How stupid can I be?" She lamented, "How stupidly ignorant can a person truly be?"

Where was she to go from here? The thought of chaos still didn't sit right with her - much less killing those of higher power to get it.

When Gordon returned she would ask his opinions. Poor Evey felt as though she was taking advantage of his kindness, and didn't want to bother him any longer, even though his jokes were beginning to bring a smile to her face once more.

His happiness made her happy. It seemed he could still be a ray of light in her life.

/

[1] John Gardner, Grendel

[2] Stephen King


	7. Alone

**ALONE**

/

He was sitting at the piano, hands at his side. He didn't much feel like playing. It seemed that even though V had plotted and planned the death of Bishop Lilliman for countless days, it all fell somewhat flat. He expected the rush, the gratifying feeling of revenge, but it was all lost the moment Evey flew through the door and ran away.

Had he expected it? Yes, and no.

"I thought I made quite a lovely home for her." he told the piano, "I would have given her anything, you know." The piano did not respond. "Don't give me that, I merely enjoyed her company! It gets rather lonely, and our conversations are often one-sided you see…" The piano didn't need to say much for him to realize the irony in that Evey had not been much of a talker herself.

Still, he missed her. The grungy look she sported in the morning before she brushed her frizzy hair, the half-hearted grunts she gave in response to most of his questions, the way she folded the corner of the book over to mark her page even when he expressly stated not to do it. Little rebel. He quite liked that.

Evey was gone, and thus, his room was his again. It didn't feel the same now that it had been straightened, and the pillowcase still smelled of the shampoo he bought for her specially. It was her odd habit of showering before bed, the poor pillow would never be the same. A quick wash would remove that smell…

He pursued her, of course, he knew where she was. He could have grabbed her and taken her back. He could have stopped her and warned her of the dangers. Hell, he could have let the Fingermen grab her and take her off and at the last minute rush in and be a hero once again. No, no. It mattered not that he tried to instill friendship. She didn't accept. So, he let her go.

He still kept watch over her. He would have liked to keep her close to ensure her safety. At first he wasn't certain why. "Sir Arnolfini, I daresay I have grown fond of her." He spoke to the Arnolfini portrait, "I can't place why. She is, at first glance, unremarkable, unmistakably vacuous, vapid. I would have sooner wished I'd taken with me a scholar." Mr. Arnolfini stared back at him with vacant eyes, "But she had moments, you know, moments of great curiosity and thought that made me believe she is the one." He coughed and bowed his head in embarrassment, "No, no, not in that way, but the one to continue on. The one to see this through to the end if I cannot."

At night he would sometimes stalk Gordon's house for a glimpse of her. He wasn't certain if Evey ever left, but he hoped she wouldn't risk her life. If she was taken, well, there would be no saving her then. His plans would be quite set back, and V was tired of waiting. He was very glad the woman had found a place she found comfortable and welcome.

Though he did so wish he still had a companion in the Shadow Gallery.

/

With Delia Surridge six feet under, he now had only a few targets left. A few threats, and a few deals made, it was coming together. The end was in sight.

It was late. He didn't feel like clearing any more track that night. This summer he would have to double his efforts, for sure. Just a few more yards and it would all be picture perfect as the days the train was actually used. The telly was playing a new late night segment. Something drab, informative. "Let's watch a movie." He could almost hear Evey's voice in the silence, "This one looks good." She would pick a tape at random, and he could see her excitement and interest in something new.

V wished she would have felt that way about his paintings or books as well.

"What are you cooking, there?" She asked him one night. He closed his eyes, remembering

"I thought I might try something different." He had been flipping through cookbooks for a dish to impress her. He didn't consider himself a grand cook. She ultimately thought he didn't salt his food enough. He couldn't very well taste it while she was there!

"It smells...interesting." He wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

"It's merely a stir-fry." When he turned to her, he could see her eyes light up at that

"Chinese food? I haven't had that in ages it seems. All of the restaurants around my place closed down." Paying rent was getting even more difficult as months went on, and take out was becoming a luxury.

"I thought I might like to try it."

"You've never had it?"

"Why, no." That seemed to surprise her. That brought her to a new thought,

"Why do you not dine with me? It's very awkward that you sit and watch so intently every night." She didn't make eye contact with the mask

"You have seen my hands, have you not?" He poured some rice into a pan and read the instructions on the bag, "You might find the same scars on my face and I daresay they wouldn't be a welcome sight while you dined."

He remembered her falling saying not much else. Stir fry had been interesting, easy to eat, flavorful. Evey still added salt, but he believed she liked it nonetheless. "If only she had stayed, I would have cooked her meals fit for royalty every night." He told the fridge

The fridge was never very chatty, but seemed to say, "The person who tries to live alone will not succeed as a human being. His heart withers if it does not answer another heart. His mind shrinks away if he hears only the echoes of his own thoughts and finds no other inspiration.[1]" The fridge sure was a jerk sometimes.

/

The days went on and merged into one another. Had a month really gone by? Two months? It was March, and V was playing chess with himself again. "My dear saltshaker queen, you must really watch yourself, you used to have such a nice figure too." Evey had only been in his life for two short months, but they had felt like ages. He could remember every detail, every spoken word, every unspoken word and action, clear as day. Given that there wasn't much he could remember before his time as a prisoner, they were memories worth hanging onto. Memories that weren't clouded with vengeance and hatred. Simple memories of happiness and ease and cooking. A whole lot of cooking.

When Gordon's show played he would watch it. Not because he enjoyed it, but because in those short months it became a routine. It reminded him of her. "I should really bring her back." He thought selfishly, "I should teach her how to use a sword, and how to make pipe bombs, and lockpicks out of piece of twig, and how to track a van and raid it while it is stopped at a light." A black pawn was pulled to his side of the board, captured. "I should have taught her these things while she was here. She may have learned, she may have been brilliant." He thought it over as he captured a rook, "But you know, dear queen, she really was missing something. Or perhaps, had something she shouldn't. Something inside her that needs to be abolished. Something else that needs to be nourished. Something." He stroked his chin and thought awhile, "For a young woman to lose her entire family to Norsefire one would assume she would be much more upset by the state of her world." He shrugged and shook his head. If only he could have read her mind.

/

"I can't stay here much longer, Gordon." Evey admitted one morning over breakfast. "I've taken advantage of your hospitality. If - if anyone were to find out I was here, there's no telling - "

"Now, now, Evey." Gordon cut her off with a swish of his fork, "I've had plenty of company over these past few months and none had even grown a bit suspicious."

"I was hiding in your closet." She often referred to his hidden room as the 'closet.'

"Yes, yes." He chuckled, and she hated him for it, "And you're very good at it!" If she didn't leave soon she might say something stupid, God help her. Something stupid and foolish and similar to 'I love you' but more like, 'I need you.'

It hadn't been easy these past few months. Evey spent her time locked up in Gordon's home, planning ways to make her whereabouts known and how she would bring V to light before it was too late. It seemed it was too late no matter when she would come forward. People were dying. Important people.

In between her boredom and TV marathons, there was Gordon. Sweet Gordon. Gordon, who she had a crush on since she began her job. Gordon, who made her heart skip the night that he asked her to accompany him to dinner. Gordon, with his wild sense of humor, charming demeanor, and cute, crooked nose.

He was untouchable. He wasn't for her. She harvested crazy fantasies of turning him, making him realize she was a catch, something no man could ever replicate.

But, well, there was just no changing it.

"It is our suffering that brings us together. It is not love. Love does not obey the mind, and turns to hate when forced. The bond that binds us is beyond choice. We are brothers. We are brothers in what we share. In pain, which each of us must suffer alone, in hunger, in poverty, in hope, we know our brotherhood. We know it, because we have had to learn it. We know that there is no help for us but from one another, that no hand will save us if we do not reach out our hand. And the hand that you reach out is empty, as mine is. You have nothing. You possess nothing. You own nothing. You are free. All you have is what you are, and what you give.[2]" Evey was reading another book from him, considering there wasn't much to do while she was left alone at his house. He certainly enjoyed dystopian novels. She wasn't exactly fond of them, as they brought to light the world she was living in. Ignorance is bliss, as they say.

The loneliness was too much. Day in and day out she was left to her own devices, prisoner again, this time in Gordon's home. It was supposed to be different. She was supposed to escape the Shadow Gallery and everything was supposed to be completely different. She was supposed to be home, safe, working her job again.

This was all wrong.

/

[1] Pearl S. Buck

[2] Ursula K Le Guin, The Dispossessed

/

Short chapter. Apologies, again, I'm not getting review alerts, so I was surprised to have some! Thank you kindly for reading! I'm still plugging along here, figuring it out as I go!


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